The Sky At Night
by LaughableBlackStorm
Summary: He had now lost two friends because of one person, and he knew who it was that killed them. There was nothing left to do now, but bring that person down. Even if he went down as well.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: I was in complete shock when I saw the season eight finale, and couldn't stop myself from this plot bunny invading my space. Thanks to WitchGirl for her help with this story, beta'ing and giving her opinions!

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Prologue_

* * *

'_The time has come for you to sit yourself out, to fit inside your mould; this ground we tread upon is now filling up to our necks; oh, my story's growing, it is; on my last request don't make me feel so contradicting; failure leaves such a bitter taste in their mouth; and on the last hour, we write so many new chapters again; I know why you never take your eyes off me; I've used my lungs for everything but breathing; I find myself dried up in this conversation, so pull me out, pull me aside.'_ – Underoath, "You're Ever So Inviting"

* * *

**G**reg Sanders had never before thought about how the team would eventually fall apart.

It was so rock solid in his mind, the foundation of everything in his life. Nothing could change, because change was bad and it led to problems and consequences. Very rarely did anything change without resulting in any bad effects. And, of course, the bad effects always created more chaos and worry, which meant more change was in store, and the cycle just continued to spin.

Nick's incident with Nigel Crane was the first change, and it had him searching for hidden cameras in his apartment and car in a fit of paranoia, thanking God that the only thing above him was Mrs. Neville and her exotic fish species. Greg's heart stopped when he was told that Nick had been pushed through a two-story window and was in the hospital recovering. The only thing coursing through his mind was the memory of his uncle Niel, who had fallen off his roof and broken his back, becoming permanently paralyzed from the waist down.

Greg had known that he preferred the male gender over female for a while now, ever since the beginning of his university years. He had also known that he was attracted to the Texan ever since his first day at the lab, when the older man had come in to introduce himself. Over the years the tiny attraction had grown into something much more that he would never admit to anybody but himself, so it was understandable that when he heard that Nick was injured, he had the urge to rush to the hospital and spill his heart out in case he never got the chance again.

He refrained from doing so, of course, if not for his dignity, then for Nick's.

The second change in the lab was the explosion. His lab was his safe haven—the place he went for solace. He owned the lab, ran it. It was his. Nothing could go wrong under his watchful gaze, because he wanted to please Grissom and the team and he could only achieve that if he processed all the evidence right, if he gave them the answers and leads they were looking for. And when he couldn't do that, he always made sure to do some extra research during his own time in hopes of coming up with something at least partially worth while for them.

But when the hideous scent of burning plastic entered his nostrils and he _knew_ that nothing he was doing involved melting plastic at all, he realized that something was wrong, so he did the only thing he thought he should do: he turned around, looking for where the smell was coming from. If he could locate the source of it, he could stop it from causing any effects, such a chemical reaction from the unwanted material. He was unbelievably lucky, of course, that he had turned away from the hot plate, because the next moment everything erupted in an explosion of white heat, deafening noise, and red and orange flames. Crashing through the glass wall was the most frightening, though. Walls are meant to radiate security, a sense of being protected from everything on the other side. And he imagined that by shattering the glass wall, he had shattered his sense of security as well.

The third change was Nick's kidnapping, and again, Greg's heart stopped when he heard the news, but that was nothing compared to his breathing difficulties while watching Nick on the screen in the A/V lab. He had to remind himself to inhale and exhale, and _do not cry_ because if that happened then all hell would surely break loose. Besides, he had to be strong for Nick and help find him; and being a blabbering mess would not be in his favour of doing just that.

And then, suddenly, he could breathe again, his heart could beat normally again, because they had found Nick and he was alive and although worse for the wear, he was breathing, and that was all that was important at the time. Visiting him was hard at first, considering that the whole team was in the room all at once and it didn't give Greg the time he desperately needed with his friend, but he kept quiet and waited it out until several days had passed and he gladly skipped his morning hours of sleep to go see Nick.

* * *

It was incredibly awkward at first. Greg couldn't get the image of Nick holding the gun to his chin out of his head and Nick couldn't get the entire experience out of his own head, so they didn't really know what to say to each other. What eventually broke the ice was Greg coming over one night, having asked Grissom for it off, after a nightmare of them never finding Nick and Greg had had to watch him slowly die in the A/V lab, all the while screaming how much he was sorry that he had failed.

"Greg?" Nick muttered groggily as Greg settled himself in the chair beside his bed, after bypassing the nurses and doctors claiming it was after visiting hours and threatening to make their night even worse if they didn't let him in.

"Sorry," he whispered, even though it wasn't necessary. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Nick just shrugged and closed his eyes for a moment, adjusting to being awake again. Greg hadn't turned on the lights so the room was cast in darkness, the only light coming from the window behind him. The beige blinds were pulled down, creating horizontal shadows over Nick's face and shoulders, and cutting off where Greg's body interfered. He noticed that Nick's eyes were sparkling, illuminated by Las Vegas' night time lights.

"What's up?" Nick asked, opening his eyes once again and focusing on Greg. Greg tried to push away the blush that threatened to creep over his cheeks at the Texan's attention.

"Nothing much," he answered, suddenly realizing just how out of the blue his visit was and how odd it must look for Nick.

Nick's eyes showed his confusion, and Greg suddenly wished he had stayed home and waited out the night, even though he wouldn't have been able to fall back asleep until he saw with his own eyes that Nick was alive and well.

"What time is it?"

Swallowing, Greg glanced at his watch, which he couldn't even make out in the darkness, and took a rough guess. "Around midnight."

"And you're here, why?"

He was sure that Nick hadn't meant it to sound rude or harsh, or maybe he just wanted it to be so, but he knew he deserved it. He knew that if someone interrupted his sleep by sitting beside his bed in the middle of the night he'd be pretty ticked off, too.

Squirming slightly, and this time not able to ward off the blush, he stumbled, "Well, uh, you see, I had this nightmare and…um…"

Nick's left eyebrow rose and he stared at him almost disbelievingly. "So you thought you'd come here and I could talk you through it?"

"No." His bluntness surprised even himself.

"So…" Nick was getting frustrated now, he could tell. It was time for damage control, before he messed up more than he already had.

He forced a light chuckle to escape his lips, even though his heart was flipped upside down and his chest was constricted and tingles of hurt were coursing down his arms, and stood up from his chair, making sure not to make any scraping sounds. "You know what?" he said, masking over his self-doubt with an expression of humorous confusion. "Forget I even came here. It's late, and my sleeping pills obviously messed something up in my head tonight; I'm probably in a daze right now."

Making his way around the bed and towards the door, he had to shove his hands into his jeans pockets—he'd had enough sense to change, just not fully think through just how much a fool he was going to make out of himself—because they were trembling. Of course, that proved to be a problem when he noticed that he had shut the room door behind him when he entered, so that meant he would have to take one hand out of its pocket to twist the doorknob, but then that opened the possibility of Nick noticing his shaking and that wouldn't be good, he didn't want to show his vulnerability in front of the man…

"You still take sleeping pills?" Nick's voice was soft, curious, and held a note of disappointment, and Greg had to close his eyes for a moment to make sure he didn't break down in from of him and beg for his forgiveness for being so weak.

"Uh, y-yeah," he said, turning back to face his friend. He hadn't taken his hands out of his pockets yet, thankfully, so they were safely trembling in hiding instead of out in the open.

They stared at each other for a moment or two, and Greg was the one to break eye contact, averting his nervous gaze to the window. He could see the outlines of skyscrapers through the spaces between the blinds.

"When, uh, you know, I have trouble sleeping and stuff…" _Oh, wow,_ he thought to himself. _You're teaching Nick so much today._ "Um, well, that's a bit obvious, I guess, but it's only once in a while, maybe once every couple of months or so, but lately it's been more often…"

"Greg."

He immediately stopped talking and paid attention to Nick. It was one of his unwritten rules: _If Nick talks to you, don't interrupt him, because he doesn't like it when people do that._ He once again reminded himself how he was a mixture of pathetic, desperate, and screwed to high hell.

There was amusement blending with the confusion in Nick's eyes.

"Why are you so nervous?" he asked quietly, and Greg thought he could just die right then. He would give anything for some crazy hospital patient to go whizzing down the hall in a wheelchair, screeching at the top of his or her lungs, just to switch Nick's attention off of Greg's rather obvious anxiety.

"I'm not nervous," was the most reasonable answer, obviously.

"Right," Nick replied with a small smile. "And you _aren't_ stammering and stumbling around for words to answer a simple question."

_My God_, thought Greg. _Today is the day I die_.

"Um…of course not?"

He wasn't too sure why, but Nick laughed, actually laughed, for a minute or two, eventually stopping to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Thanks, man," he said with a wide grin. "I haven't laughed in days."

_I bet you haven't_, Greg almost said, but thankfully, this time he had a filter between his mind and mouth. Instead he shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking for any polite way to leave while still keeping the small bit of dignity he had left.

"So, seriously," Nick continued with a grin, "why are you so nervous tonight? It's not because you're in the same room as me, alone, is it?"

_Yes! Yes, Nick, that's exactly it, if only you really knew!_

"No!" he replied loudly, maybe a bit too loudly, because both his and Nick's eyes widened. "I mean… Damn, that made me sound like I'm lying, but I'm not, I swear, Nick… It's just, er, the nightmare, see…" And back to the nightmare, which just succeeded in leading him from one nerve-wracking explanation to another. He almost patted himself on the back.

"Oh," Nick said simply.

"Yeah." He shuffled his foot and cleared his throat. "So…I'll just, you know, be on my—"

"I don't think so, Sanders," Nick half growled, which caused Greg's attention to once again snap to the Texan and his shoulders unconsciously straightened. If he was honest with himself, which he didn't like to be, he hated it when Nick called him by his last name; it sounded cold, unfriendly, almost like he didn't care enough about him to call him by his first name, just simply _Greg,_ or even a nickname, like _G_ or _Greg-o._ "You're not going anywhere until you tell me about this nightmare of yours, because not only did it wake you up in the middle of the night, but it ended up waking _me_ up, too. So sit down and spill!" He had crossed his arms while talking and was staring at Greg directly in the eyes.

Greg truly couldn't tell if Nick was serious or not, if he was actually angry at him. But any sort of indication that he had made Nick upset sent alarms blaring in his mind, and the panic set in before he could squash it down.

"Listen, Nick," Greg said quietly, raising his hands in front of him in some sort of self-defense pose—his hands were still shaking, of course, but he didn't think of that— "I'm sorry that I just sort of barged in here during the middle of the night and woke you up. I honestly don't know what was going on in my head. But I swear, I won't do it again, all right? I'll even stop visiting if you want, during the day, you know, since this kind of turned out awkward and you probably don't ever want to see me again, so—"

"Whoa, Greg," Nick interrupted, his eyes wide. "Wait, buddy, slow down there. I just want to know what your nightmare was about, so you could maybe talk about it. I mean, that _is_ why you came here in the first place, right? To talk to me about it?"

New problem. He could answer yes, that was why he came here, since it was partially true, or say no, he came here to make sure his nightmare wasn't real.

"Yeah, sure, I did." At least it was _convincing_.

Nick sighed, obviously confused. "You aren't making any sense, G."

He had used one of Greg's nicknames. _Crap_. He felt his heart skip a beat.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not knowing what else to say. He'd finally lowered his arms and they were now hanging at his sides, and he realized just how awkward they looked and made an attempt to stuff them in his pockets again.

Now Nick was staring at him oddly. _Great_. Why hadn't he left yet? Why was he making it worse?

_Because I want to spend time with Nick_.

'Even if it means humiliating yourself?'

_It's still worth it_.

'You're a fool.'

_I know_.

"Greg?" Damn. Nick had obviously been calling his name during his internal battle. "What's going on, man?" His voice was softer now and he had a look of concern on his face. "You're starting to worry me, G. Is something wrong?"

He could feel the horrifying lump building in his throat, and he was thankful the darkness hid the tears building in his eyes. He stared down at his shoes and tried breathing slowly to control his emotions. In and out. In and out. It wasn't working. His whole body was shaking now, not just his hands, and there was no possible way that Nick was going to miss that.

"Greg? Talk to me, buddy, tell me what's going on."

He almost sobbed at the injustice of it all. The only person who he felt comfortable confiding in was the reason he couldn't confide in him. If that even made any sense, which he was positive it didn't, because even he wasn't understanding his thoughts and feelings anymore.

So, instead of spilling his heart out to Nick like he so, so desperately wanted—needed—to do, he instead swallowed one last time, felt a tear course down his cheek, and shook his head, before looking back up at Nick.

"I have to go," he whispered, stepping backwards towards to closed door.

"Greg, don't you dare leave!" Nick said. Greg detected a hint of panic in Nick's voice and he wondered why. "Something's wrong, man, anyone can see it—" _I know that, Nick, and that's why I need to get out of here_— "and you obviously need to get something off your chest, so please, man, just stay and talk to me?"

He wasn't quite sure how Nick ended that sentence as a question, but it didn't really matter because Greg had already opened the door and was ready to step out of the room. He was suffocating in here.

"I have to go," he repeated. "I'm sorry, again, for bothering you."

"You're not bothering me, G," Nick said a bit louder than needed, his accent showing through more in his rising panic. Greg still couldn't figure out why he was so worried. "I want to know what's wrong, Greg, please."

Greg was sure his heart shattered at the exact moment. Nick may as well have ripped open his chest and taken his lungs out of his body. His hand gripping the doorknob was shaking so badly his knuckles were white.

A short laugh that sounded more like a sob tore through his throat. It was an ugly sound, one that echoed throughout the room horribly.

"No you don't," he said simply, and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Greg blinked several times, his bedroom ceiling once more coming into focus. He'd lost track of his focus again, his train of thoughts derailing and drifting towards that memory in the hospital with Nick. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He needed to get a grip of himself.

Their screwed up conversation (only in Greg's end, though, Nick had done nothing wrong; it wasn't his fault that Greg couldn't handle himself) had caused change, too. It was the fourth major change in Greg's life. He successfully avoided Nick for two years after it; he wasn't sure how, but when he looked back at those wasted years all he could remember was a blur. It was as though he'd gone through them in a daze, not really noticing anything that went on around him. For several weeks after coming back to the lab Nick tried to confront him about what had happened, but Greg always clammed up and tried to make himself as small as possible. It caused Nick to lose his patience several times, and once he even asked if he had done something wrong himself; it made Greg explode with apologies for his behaviour, repeating over and over again that Nick had done nothing wrong and that he was just having a rough time with something personal. It didn't made him want to get close to Nick again, though—no, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle that.

The others noticed their distance as well, but since it wasn't cold or anger-related, they never did figure out what exactly had happened. After a while they all simply dropped it, Nick included, but Greg still saw the questions and confusion and irritation in their eyes, and occasionally the hurt in Nick's. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Nick, but it was better this way: if he could distance himself enough then the feelings would slowly go away, and when they did he would try and patch up their friendship.

But Greg was foolish, and he had always been aware of that since he was a kid, so when the feelings didn't dissolve at all and only grew stronger and more blinding over the two year period of isolation, he knew he had only himself to blame.

* * *

It was horrible. It had been two years since Nick was kidnapped; since Greg realized just how deep his feelings for the Texan ran; since Greg decided that he couldn't do this anymore. And he was paying, dearly.

He had to set his alarm three hours early because he just couldn't bring himself to get out of bed in the evenings to get ready for his shift. He would lie in bed for those three hours, just staring at the ceiling or the wall, depending on whatever position he woke up in (assuming he even fell asleep that night), and try to breathe in a regular rhythm while gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists. He'd been doing this for one and a half years now, and his routine had yet to change.

He skipped breakfast, not having an appetite at the thought of seeing Nick in just a few minutes' time and knowing that there was absolutely no possibility of being able to communicate with him. After taking a quick cold shower and not bothering to do anything with his hair, he tied his shoes, slipped on a jacket, and left for the lab.

The hardest scenes to process were the ones he was paired up with Nick for, obviously. Those were always tense. He did his best to stay as far away from the other man as possible, but sometimes that just wasn't possible and he would have to speak to him and work within close proximity to him. After those shifts he always headed straight to the bathroom when he got home to empty his stomach contents, not that there was much. He had gotten thinner over the two year span, and his skin was paler and he had small bags under his eyes most of the time, but everyone had stopped asking him if he was all right. As long as he did his job, they apparently didn't care that he was stuck at a point in his life he didn't want to be in. Or maybe they were just frustrated with him. Whatever.

And then came the night when the gang of teenagers was beating people up around the block—the fifth change—and Grissom asked him to go collect evidence from a breaking and entering scene where Sofia was. Solo, too. He was absolutely stunned and ecstatic for the first time in months; it had been a damn good day. The prosecutor had taken him out for dinner, and even though he wasn't into her, it still broke up his routine for the afternoon.

Everything was going perfectly fine until he ran across the mob and he decided to play hero. But honestly, what was he supposed to do? Did they actually expect him to simply sit in his car while the man was beaten to death? He would never be able to live with that on his conscience. (He had trouble living with Demetrius James' death on his conscience, too, but he repeatedly tried convincing himself that that was different.)

Later he found out that Nick had gotten upset at the crime scene after Warrick found a patch of his hair, and punched a bystander in the stomach. He was absolutely floored that Nick still cared enough about him to get angry like that. Hope bubbled in his chest for a few hours, but he quickly squashed it, harshly reminding himself that they had been friends once upon a time, and just because he was upset that Greg had gotten the shit beaten out of him didn't mean he could possibly _like_ him. So he was back at square one with the unbearable weight in his chest, especially since Nick didn't come to visit him in the hospital, but those few hours that he had hoped reminded him of the spark that he used to live with, and it had felt good. Amazing, really.

And now he was a killer, even if it hadn't been intentional. He hadn't _wanted_ to take Demetrius James' life away. He hadn't _wanted_ to tear the James family apart. He hadn't _wanted_ to make the city pay them two and a half million dollars because of his mistake.

He was finally beginning to get over it when Aaron James made the mistake of getting into the limo with Drops and Champ, and killing that girl, Simone. Greg still remembered the under sheriff's words; they echoed in his head some days, taunting, tipping him towards the edge.

'_This would have been so much easier, if you had been the black guy_.'

Those were the scariest days, when those words wouldn't leave him alone. They seemed to follow him everywhere he went, nagging just in the corner of his mind, reminding him how badly he screwed up when he received a compliment or smile from someone on the team, bringing his moment's elation to a standstill once again. On those days, the Easier Days as he had ironically nicknamed them, he never wanted to go home, because when he did his eyes kept drifting towards the kitchen counter where the steak knives sat. He always resisted, though, so far.

The sixth change was when Sara was kidnapped by the Miniature Killer. Greg saw the horror and love and anxiety in Grissom's eyes while they were frantically searching for her, and he could relate somewhat to how his boss felt—the horror of possibly never seeing your loved one again, the anxiety that you won't be able to help them, yet still you love them with everything you have. Yes, Greg understood. But he kept quiet and just did his job, and breathed again when they found her.

Sara's departure was so sudden, so unexpected, that Greg was completely floored when he found out. No goodbye, no signs that it was coming. Greg's head spun at the thought of never seeing her again. The seventh change, and this one hurt. A lot. That night he went home and threw up, heaved for ten minutes, and completely broke down. Sara had been his closest friend for the two years that he avoided Nick… He had confided in her, because he knew that he had to tell somebody before his heart exploded. He had told her _everything_, and she was the only one who knew that he was in love with Nick. And now she was gone and he had no one to joke with, to feel comfortable around. The steak knives looked especially tempting that night, so he quickly left his apartment and drove around the city for an hour, heading nowhere at all. It was amazing he didn't get into an accident, considering how he was in such a daze.

And then Warrick was killed. Number eight.

And that was when Greg knew he was tired of losing.

-11-


	2. These Fate Trashed Walls

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title comes from the song quoted below.

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter One:  
_These Fate Trashed Walls

* * *

'_Maybe we, why don't we, sit right here for half an hour? We'll speak of what a waste I am, and how we missed your beat again; I swear we need to find some comfort in this run down place, to bridge the gap of this conscious state that we live in, and I'm short of time; keep me filled in, and I swear I'll come; you're almost gone, and I'm okay (I still say you're sorry) to give you a chance to be afraid; but never, I remember your presence.'_ – Underoath, "Writing On The Walls"

* * *

**T**he funeral was strange.

It wasn't the word he wanted to use to describe it, but the more he thought about it the more it made sense. He didn't shed a tear—not when he saw Warrick's family grieving, not when everyone spoke great words about his friend, not when the casket was lowered into the ground and covered.

Not one.

He didn't speak a word, either. Every time someone spoke to him, which wasn't often, he simply stared at them and either nodded, shrugged, or shook his head. He just couldn't get the words to form in his head and escape his mouth. There was nothing to say, anyway. Warrick was dead.

Everyone had driven to the cemetery in their own vehicles, and he guessed it was simply because they had all wanted to have time to think and prepare themselves. That was how he'd felt, anyway. But he had resisted the urge to drive at a crawling speed to give himself more time; he owed it to Warrick to be there on time.

It was all over now, too, and he had yet to show any emotion. It surprised even himself, and he knew that Catherine and Nick had noticed as well. Grissom hadn't, of course, but Greg wasn't surprised. He had seen his boss walk away from the cemetery shortly after the eulogy was given.

"Greg," Catherine said quietly, confronting him near the outskirts of the cemetery. She looked beautiful, wearing a simple black dress that cut off at her knees. She had her hair curly and pinned up in a bun, with black dangling earrings to match her dress. Greg couldn't imagine how hard this was for her. "Are you okay? You haven't said a word all day."

He simply gave her a small smile and walked away. She didn't follow him. He didn't hold it against her; this was much harder for her, after all. He wasn't the one that had lost a loved one; he'd lost a friend.

He managed to catch Nick's eye several times, all of which he was the first to break eye contact and turn away while biting his lip. Ever time Nick's eyes held worry and grief. Again, he couldn't imagine what Nick was feeling, having been closest to Warrick.

He was now driving out of the churchyard, past those who remained to discuss Warrick's life a little longer, past the steel gates. He was driving away from Warrick, most of all—his friend was gone, dead, and he needed to stay that way in order for Greg to move on; and if he stayed there any longer, or thought about him anymore, there was no way for him to accomplish just that. So Greg drove quickly, leaving Warrick to rest beneath the dark soil and granite headstone, and let him rest in the back of his mind.

The scenery flashed by in a whirlwind of greens and browns and whites. The weather was basic—semi-warm, cool breeze, sunny-cloudy sky—and the houses near there weren't interesting or painted odd colours, so nothing caught his attention. That was bad. He needed distraction. He was going to have a nervous breakdown if his thoughts kept drifting back to the friend he had just buried.

He decided to think about his game plan, what he would do with his life now. He had once again had to let go of someone close to him; his heart was aching and his head pounding in response. This was getting to be too much. He couldn't deal with this anymore. Who would be next? Catherine? Grissom? His mother or father? God knew he hadn't spoken to his family in forever; he tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up tomorrow morning, and get a phone call from California stating that one of his parents' (or both) bodies had been found in a ditch off the highway. He couldn't let that happen. Or, at least, he couldn't let it affect him, if it ever did happen.

He knew what he would do. Smiling grimly and strangely relieved that he was in control of his life—something he hadn't experienced in two years—Greg turned left instead of right, heading towards the lab.

Home could wait.

* * *

The lab was quiet as he walked down the halls. Maybe it was because everyone knew that one of their own was buried today; maybe they had all silently agreed to minimize the laughing, the smiles, in honour of the lost life. Whatever reason the CSIs and lab techs only spoke to shortly discuss cases, Greg didn't care. In fact, the only thing he really cared about at the moment was himself, and although it sounded selfish even in his own mind (on this day no less), he felt somewhat refreshed; he hadn't thought about his own wellbeing in a long time.

A day shift CSI he'd met a couple of times when pulling some doubles smiled in greeting when she saw him, but he couldn't muster one to send back to her. He hoped she understood as he continued down the hall, going the opposite way she was.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he reached the door he wanted. He knocked and heard a quiet, defeated sounding, "Come in."

He opened the door, stepped inside, and softly shut it behind him, before turning back around. This was it. He was ready. His head was clear, if not only temporarily, before his thoughts sank to deeper, more dangerous levels again.

"Greg? I thought you were heading home?"

If there was one person he could count on being here after a funeral, it was Grissom.

He shrugged. "I needed to talk to you."

Grissom sighed and took off his glasses, shoving aside the paperwork he had been working on. "About what?" he asked, staring at his glasses while he cleaned the lenses.

"It's about work," Greg said.

"Does this have anything to do with Warrick?"

Greg swore his heart skipped a beat at the name. He felt his face pale a degree. Grissom's attention was now completely on him, he was staring directly into Greg's eyes, something that made him feel uncomfortable. Amazing, how he could still be nervous around his boss at a time like this. Maybe some things never changed. He took some comfort out of that thought.

"No," he answered quietly. "Well, maybe a little. It depends."

"On what?"

Greg noticed how tired Grissom looked, how resigned. He looked like a father who had just lost one of his children. It was the same type of situation, in a way.

Swallowing, Greg stared at his feet. "I want to switch to days or swing."

Grissom was quiet for a moment before saying slowly, "This isn't the best day to make this decision, Greg. Your thoughts are most likely being influenced by what has happened."

"I know that," Greg said quickly, making eye contact with Grissom again. "And I've thought about it quite a bit, and I really want to. I don't care which shift I go to, at least…not yet."

Grissom frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. "Not yet?"

Greg felt his cheeks flush and he opened his mouth to say something, but decided not to.

"Greg," Grissom said softly, "I can't afford to lose another CSI right now."

Greg winced and looked away. "I'm sure you'll find a decent replacement."

"Yes, but I would rather deal with finding one CSI right now, instead of two."

Grissom obviously didn't get it, or maybe he was trying to let Greg down gently.

"Warrick was a CSI level three," Greg said, turning back to his boss. It hurt unbearably to say his friend's name, but this had to be done. Grissom would understand eventually. "I'm only a level one. I'll be replaced a lot faster and easier than he will be. It isn't much to worry about."

Grissom was silent again for a moment, seemingly studying Greg for any hidden answers or motives.

"Nobody on my shift gets 'replaced', Greg," he said slowly, breaking the tension. "If someone leaves or is…unable to work anymore, then we simply find someone to start anew with. Warrick will never be replaced; Sara will never be replaced; Holly Gribbs was never replaced. And if you choose to leave, neither will you be."

Quietly scoffing, Greg said, "Same difference, Grissom. One person leaves, another takes their place. It's as simple as that. All I'm saying is that finding a level one CSI will be easier than finding a level three."

"Why exactly do you want to switch, Greg?" And there it was again, the unnerving, penetrating stare. Greg resisted the urge to look away.

"I want to start somewhere new," he said. "A lot of things have been happening lately, and I just…" There went his confidence. It never lasted long, these days. "I just can't do this anymore," he finished in a whisper, and he had to look away because he was absolutely ashamed of himself.

"And how do you think that'll affect the team? Another friend leaving?"

Goddamn Grissom and his guilt tactics. He never usually spoke this much at one time, but for some reason he seemed absolutely set on keeping Greg with him. Maybe he was feeling insecure at the moment; he had just buried someone from his team, after all. Still, it made Greg feel restricted, like he was obligated to stay and work under him, and that wasn't how he wanted to feel—he'd started working here because he wanted to, not because he _had_ to. And right now, he wanted to do something for himself.

Greg swallowed again, his gaze flickering between the encased insects and his boss. He was losing ground, he could tell. That wasn't good.

"Listen, I'm sorry, Grissom, but I really just need to do this…" And there went his confidence completely; he felt it disintegrate inside him, falling through his stomach and underneath the floor his feet rested upon. His hands began to shake and he quickly shoved them into his jacket pockets, hoping Grissom didn't notice.

He did. Greg noticed his gaze shift to his hands and a look of sadness briefly enveloped his face, before it disappeared and the blank, defeated look returned. But he didn't say anything.

"Are you absolutely certain about this, Greg?" he asked quietly, staring into Greg's eyes again.

Greg stopped breathing.

"Yes," he whispered.

Grissom seemed to decide something, and then nodded shortly once, almost to himself.

"I'll mention it to Ecklie." He was staring at the paperwork on his desk.

Greg thanked him quietly and left the room, leaving his life behind with it.

* * *

Back at his apartment, Greg sat at his kitchen table, staring at a bottle of beer.

It was a popular brand, light, and the box had come with a cap with the logo on the front. He'd seen Warrick and Nick drinking it a few times. The bottle wasn't open yet, and if he was perfectly honest with himself, he had no urge to ever pry off the top. But maybe, just once, today, would be a good day to drown out the world around him and pass out. Of course, waking up to a headache didn't hold very much appeal, but if it offered at least a few minutes of peace, then it would be worth it. Having a pounding hammer behind his eyes would distract him from his thoughts, too, anyway.

He scraped his chair back several inches and folded his arms on the table, resting his chin on them. His eyes were glued on the bottle, absently reading everything on it over and over again—the brand, the percentage of alcohol, the logo—all the while wondering what he would do now.

Grissom was going to talk to Ecklie about him switching shifts, and that was a good start…but what if Ecklie refused? What if Greg was forced to stay on night shift, and he would have to endure being around Nick for years? It would be awkward around Grissom as well, now that the older man knew of Greg's wishes.

And what would happen if Ecklie did accept it, and Greg was transferred to either day or swing shift? How would the team react? Would they be baffled, hurt that another friend from the team had left? Would they hate him and think him weak and pathetic? Or would they not care at all, and just shrug it off?

"Don't think like that," he muttered to himself. It was mildly uncomfortable with his head's full weight being pivoted on his chin, which was being pressed into his arms, causing a crick in his neck. "They care about me, they've just given up on asking if I'm okay. Can't blame them for that."

'You've finally gone crazy.'

_No I haven't_.

'You're talking to yourself, Sanders—out loud. Not just in your head.'

_Nobody is here to criticize. Who cares_.

He sighed heavily and repositioned his head so his forehead was resting on his arms now, giving his neck a break. He couldn't see the beer bottle anymore. It was still unopened.

How would Nick react, if Greg left night shift? They hadn't spoken—not counting when they were at a crime scene—in so many months. Did he even care about Greg anymore? Did he ever think of him? Greg wasn't sappy, but it would be nice for him to cross the other man's mind once in a while, to know if Nick knew that he still existed.

This was stupid. He clearly thought too much. Deciding he just didn't give a shit anymore, Greg lifted his head quickly and a second later the bottle cap was bouncing on the table and he was chugging down the liquid.

He was through half the bottle before he placed it back down on the table, his face scrunched up in disgust. This stuff really wasn't all that Nick and Warrick said it was. But he finished it anyway, a bit slower this time, thoughts of Nick not caring if he transferred egging him on.

* * *

He was an idiot. He had decided it yesterday at around four o'clock when he woke up on his couch. Turned out that he was a lightweight, a fact he had forgotten when he bought the case of beer, so it only took a couple of bottles to make him sleepy enough to lie down on the couch. It was distracting though, in the long run, plus he woke up with no headache since he hadn't been full out drunk—besides, there was still plenty of beer left for other nights.

He wouldn't call himself an alcoholic-in-the-making, since he wasn't doing it for the beer. The stuff tasted like crap, in his opinion. But it felt good to focus on how the lights seemed brighter and everything rushed faster towards him than normal, so he figured it wasn't too horrible.

He wished he had the night off. He was tired; it felt like something heavy was dragging behind him. He took a quick shower, the first hot one he'd had in a long time, and when he stepped out from behind the curtain he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It wasn't all that pretty. He had bags under his eyes, his skin was pale, and his cheekbones stuck out more than they had two weeks ago. Wow. No wonder everyone just stared at him disbelievingly when he answered _I'm fine_.

Sighing, he towel-dried his hair and went to get dressed. He hadn't styled his hair in years, ever since he became a CSI. He'd let it grow out for a while, cut it, then let it grow again to look shaggy, but that was as complex as it got these days. Sometimes when he stared into a mirror he missed the wacky styles he used to gel and dye his hair, and considered starting up again, but then a moment later he realized that it wouldn't fit him anymore. He didn't look right for blond streaks and spikes.

His cell phone rang when he was about halfway to the lab.

"Hello?"

"_Greg, it's Grissom_."

"Oh hey, Griss." A car cut him off and he slammed on the brakes, and the driver behind him honked his horn. Staring into the rear-view mirror, he saw the guy swearing and hitting his steering wheel. "What's up? I'm on my way in."

"_Don't_."

"Excuse me?"

"_Don't come in. I just spoke with Ecklie, and he's agreed to transfer you to day shift_."

It took him a second to realize he could drive forward again, sending the driver behind him into another fit.

"That…was fast."

"_Yes, it was_." Greg thought he heard a bitter tone in Grissom's voice. "_Ecklie wants you starting tomorrow. That good with you?_"

"I… Yeah, that's fine… Thanks, Griss." He turned right into a parking lot and parked. "Um…I had actually planned on saying goodbye to all you guys, tonight."

Grissom was silent for a moment before he said, "_You'll see us soon, I'm sure. We work a lot of doubles_."

"You sure do," Greg chuckled. "Thanks again, Griss. And…I'm sorry, that you have to replace two guys now, not just one. It's just…for the best, trust me."

Again, Grissom paused, longer this time. Greg wondered if he had hung up and feared that he'd pissed him off royally this time, somehow, but then Grissom spoke once again.

"_I'll see you around, Greg_." And they both hung up.

Grissom's voice had been blank when he said goodbye, something that didn't catch Greg by surprise. But it would have been nice to hear _some_ sort of emotion in the conversation.

Swallowing, Greg started for home.

* * *

His cell phone was ringing. Grumbling, Greg threw his arm over to the side where his night stand was, thumping it against the hard surface until it reached its destination. Turning onto his back and eager to stop the aggravating noise, he quickly flipped it open and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" he answered groggily. And to think, he had actually been able to catch some sleep.

"_What the hell is this all about, Greg?!_"

Catherine. Great.

Sighing, he said, "Hello, Catherine."

"_Don't 'hello' me, Sanders. I want a damn explanation as to why you aren't at the lab tonight, and I want it now!_"

"I don't work nights anymore." He reached over and flicked on his beside lamp, squinting at the sudden brightness. He hadn't used it in a long time, he realized.

"_Oh, really?_" The sarcasm in her voice was nearly palpable. "_Care to explain why?_"

_No, actually, Catherine. This is none of your business_.

He sighed again and fell back against his pillow. "Listen, Cath, I'm s—"

"_If you're going to pull the whole sorry card on me, don't even try_."

"Then what do you want me to say?" he asked louder, growing frustrated. He didn't need this. Not now. Not ever.

"_I just want an explanation, Greg!_" Catherine's voice was more emotional now; still loud, but he could hear the tears in her eyes and the confusion swimming in her head, and it made him want to hide in a hole under the floor. "_I mean…I come into work, expecting Grissom to give me, you and Nicky some assignments, and instead I'm told that you've been transferred to day shift. Why?_"

"I…" He was at a loss for words. She wasn't supposed to care!

"_Please, Greg, tell me you didn't ask for it. Tell me that Ecklie forced you to. Threatened to fire you_."

"I'm sorry, Catherine," he whispered, and hung up.

* * *

First day with Ecklie on day shift. It would be interesting, he was sure.

He walked into the lab and immediately knew that it wasn't going to be anywhere near the same as working night shift. He wouldn't pass Nick or Catherine in the hallways; he wouldn't trade sarcastic remarks with Hodges; he wouldn't joke about being in the field with Wendy; he wouldn't step foot into Grissom's office and notice all the insects and bug encyclopaedias. _My God_, he thought. _Why did I do this again?_

And then he knocked on Ecklie's door, heard a crisp "_Come in_," opened the door and shut it behind him, and immediately remembered why he'd asked for the transfer.

"Sanders," Ecklie greeted in his usual manner, staring at him with a small grin on his face that Greg couldn't quite decipher and didn't really want to, anyway. "Welcome to the team."

Greg nodded silently and took the seat Ecklie waved at. He noticed how dull his new boss' office was.

"Now, Greg," Ecklie continued. "Gil seemed a little concerned about you wanting to transfer. And to be honest, I found that a bit strange, since he rarely shows any emotion at all—"

"Grissom isn't inhuman," Greg said unexpectedly. "He feels just like you and me." Hopefully not the exact same as Greg felt, though.

Ecklie stared at him for a moment before saying, "My point is, Greg, that I don't really care why you chose to transfer; I just want you doing your best and working efficiently, and getting along with everyone. Whereas Gil becomes attached to everyone on his team, I don't. And I don't play favourites, either."

Yeah, right.

"I wasn't expecting you to," Greg said lowly.

"Good." Ecklie sifted through some papers on his desk and handed one to Greg. "Here. Male DB found behind a strip bar. I've paired you up with Malcolm Niles, a CSI level three. Do whatever he says."

"I've been a CSI for a while now," Greg said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't need to be babysat."

Ecklie grinned his wicked, smug grin, and it made Greg's skin crawl. "We just don't want any accidents to happen on the job."

_You smug, pathetic son of a bitch_.

Glaring, Greg took the slip of paper and stood up abruptly, if only to eliminate the chance of Ecklie's body being mysteriously found in his office with signs of strangulation. He opened the door and was about to step out into the hallway when Ecklie's voice drifted over to him.

"Oh, and make sure to keep your foot off the gas pedal, Sanders."

He created a whole new level of slamming a door.

* * *

He lay in bed, snug beneath his covers, staring at the ceiling, wishing it would open up and just suck him into a black hole so he could disappear.

Screw Ecklie. Screw day shift. Screw starting over in his life. He was only there for one day, and already he was boiling with rage. However, if he thought about it differently, this _was_ the most emotion he'd felt in two years. Maybe this was a step in the right direction, even if it didn't quite feel like it yet.

He sighed and turned over onto his left side so he was facing his alarm clock. It was two in the morning. He would usually be at work right now, processing a body or room, avoiding Nick, trying to please Grissom, Catherine and Warrick. Things change quickly.

His phone began to ring and he wondered if it was Catherine again. He hoped it wasn't, and yet he desperately hoped it was. He wanted her to ask him how his day went and he wanted to vent about it, but he wanted her to forget about him so he could forget about her, at the same time.

Sighing, he checked the caller ID.

_N_._ Stokes_.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, and threw his phone across the room.

Nick hadn't bothered with him in one year. Why _now?_

-9-


	3. Straight Reads The Line

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title from song quoted below.

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter Two:  
_Straight Reads The Line

* * *

'_But the night has already taken me away; shedding dreams under the maple tree, where I carved your name; time favours no one and if we wait, we too can fall in love a second too late.'_ – Underoath, "A Message For Adrienne"

* * *

**M**aybe it wouldn't matter if he called Nick back. Just a quick hello, to find out what the other man had called for. After all, he'd succeeded in avoiding him for so long; why would a simple phone call change anything?

Greg slowly eased himself out of bed, pulling the bed sheets off his waist and legs and folding them over the side, sliding his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet made contact with the floor and he took a deep breath. He stared at the phone, which was lying on the carpeted floor across the room, and considered his options. He could either ignore the fact that Nick called, or he could call Nick back and find out—who knew what Nick could have wanted?

However, there _were_ the consequences of each option. If he did not call Nick back, then he would never know what the other man had wanted; maybe he'd been calling to ask about the shift change, or just a random 'How are you?' which would lead him back a few months, when he wasn't as detached from Nick as he was now, and the possible conversation would haunt him. On the other hand, if he did call Nick, there was the possibility of an awkward conversation, where Greg had to explain why he no longer worked graveyard, and possibly make him spill his heart out to Nick since they weren't face to face and now he didn't have to worry about facing the man the next day.

Both ways could end badly. However, both ways could end _well_, too.

"Damn it," he muttered, standing up and walking towards the phone. The distance seemed to stretch on forever, when in reality it was only a few steps. Funny, how a small piece of technology caused so many internal problems.

Picking up the cell phone, he flipped it open and went through his speed dial until he reached number four. That meant passing number three—Warrick. He would have to delete that sometime. Swallowing and pushing his friend's face out of his mind, he hit the send button and held the phone to his ear.

It rang twice before Nick picked up.

"_Why didn't you pick up before?_" was his greeting, and Greg nearly shut the phone right then and there.

"Um…" _Think, Sanders, think! _By God, he hadn't heard Nick's voice over the phone in so long…

"_Greg? You still there?_"

"Oh, yeah, I'm here. I, uh, didn't reach the phone in time."

"_Oh. All right_."

"So…" His mouth was too dry, his head was too clogged. "What's up?"

"_Not much. Just wondering why you aren't at work tonight_."

Of course. Of _course_ Nick hadn't called just to ask how life was going. Greg closed his eyes and cursed himself for being so foolish. What had he expected? They hadn't called each other in _months_—why now?

"Oh, right… Grissom didn't explain it?" He could have sworn that Catherine said Grissom told them.

"_No, no, he did_." Greg noticed how tight Nick's voice was, and he willed his hands to stop trembling. Nick was upset. Nick was upset with _him_. "_But he didn't say why you asked for the transfer_."

He sounded so accusatory. Greg turned around and leaned against the wall, fighting off the lump in his throat.

"Well, I…I never really gave him a reason."

Nick was silent for a moment, during which Greg chewed on his lip. His heart hadn't beat this fast since he found out that Warrick was…dead. "_Will you give me a reason?_"

Jesus Christ. Of all the things to say, it had to be _that_. Greg squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them, disappointed to find that he was still talking to Nick on the phone, and it hadn't just been a bad dream.

"I…" The lump constricted his throat, making it difficult to speak, to breathe. "I can't do that," he said in a whisper. Oh, he wanted to—he would give anything to be able to explain everything to Nick, but he couldn't.

"_Why not?_" Nick was getting angry. Greg clenched his hands into fists. "_What's going on with you, man? You've been acting weird for a long time now, like two years, and_—"

"Two years?" Greg whispered. Nick _knew_ how long? Did he remember their conversation in the hospital, the night that Greg decided he had to stop?

"_Yeah, G_," Nick said in a funny voice, like he was confused by Greg's question.

_Oh, my God_, Greg thought. _He used my nickname_. He slid down the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"_Listen_," Nick said after a moment's pause. "_How about I go over to your place after your shift so we can talk? Or you can come over to mine. I don't care which_."

Greg's breath hitched. "T-Talk?" he stuttered. "About w-what?"

He heard Nick sigh. "_This is just it, Greg. You're acting…different. Especially around me. Everyone's noticed, but you won't answer us when we ask you what's wrong. It's like you're trying to push us all away_."

"No," Greg said quietly to himself, not realizing that Nick could hear him. "Not everyone."

"_What?_"

Oh, damn. "N-Nothing. Um, I don't know if we can talk after shift, I mean, I have to go somewhere—"

"_Who're you trying to push away, Greg, if not everybody? Who?_"

_You_.

Greg didn't say anything.

"_Greg_," Nick said quietly, a hint of hurt in his voice. Greg closed his eyes again and rested his forehead on his knees. "_Are you_..." He heard Nick take a deep breath. "_Are you pushing…me away?_"

Greg noticed he was crying, the tears leaking from his eyes silently. His whole body shook as he repressed the sobs that threatened to tear him up from the core.

"_Greg, please! Tell me what's going on, I want to help you!_" Why did Nick sound so panicked?

Greg opened his mouth to inhale deeply, but instead a rough sob escaped. His left hand, the one that wasn't holding the cell phone, gripped the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles were ghost white and his nails were marking his palm through the fabric.

"_Greg? Greg! What's wrong?_"

Why had he called Nick back? Why hadn't he just let it be, and gone back to sleep? He wanted to hurt himself for being so stupid.

He tried to speak, but all that came out were more sobs. He was so pathetic.

"_Greg?! I'm coming over, okay?_"

He snapped back to attention so fast his crying momentarily stopped.

"_What?!_ No! Don't come! You…you have to work!" he exclaimed, his mind rushing for any excuse available to keep Nick away.

"_Screw work. Greg, something's really wrong with you, I can tell, no matter how much you try to convince everyone that you're fine. I'll tell Grissom that something urgent's come up, and I'm driving over to we can talk about this. All right?_"

_No!_ he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. _No, this is _not _all right!_

_My God, how can this be happening?!_

"No, please," he moaned, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He just had to make sure Nick didn't come. "D-Don't…don't come. St-stay at work. _Please_."

Nick didn't talk for a long time, and all Greg heard from the other end was footsteps. He hoped to God it was just somebody walking by Nick, and not Nick's own footsteps.

"_G_," Nick said quietly, softly, but still with the panic in his voice. "_I'm coming over. You're freaking me out, here, buddy_."

_Buddy_. Nick had called him _buddy_.

"Fuck," Greg whimpered, immediately hanging up and shutting the phone. This could _not_ be happening. After two years of avoiding him, it was _Nick_ to break his one-sided agreement. Anger boiled beneath his skin, scorching his veins. What right did Nick have? None! Greg was trying so _damn_ hard to do this, and now Nick wanted to ruin it!

Standing up swiftly, dropping his cell phone in the process, Greg got dressed quicker than he ever had in his life, and ran to the front door. Grabbing his keys and shoving his feet into his shoes, he locked the door behind him and ran to the parking lot where his car was.

He slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door, before roughly turning the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot and onto the Las Vegas streets.

Nick may come. But Greg wouldn't be there with him.

* * *

The streets weren't too busy at this time at night. As upset as he was, he made sure to never take his eyes off the road. The last thing he needed was to run down some kid who was trying to cross the street.

He couldn't believe Nick's nerve. If he had known that something was wrong with Greg for the full two years, then why not come over earlier? Why wait until after Sara left, after Warrick's death, after Greg finally decided that enough was enough and he couldn't do it anymore? Why bring it all back up _now?_

Sighing, he shook his head. Surely, Nick wouldn't actually come—Grissom wouldn't let him. If Nick asked to leave and said it was because of Greg, then Grissom would simply tell him to wait until he was off the clock. And by then, Greg would be at work himself, hopefully driving to a scene.

Which reminded him… He was supposed to be sleeping so that he could work tomorrow without rubbing his eyes every two seconds. Ecklie would have his head if he showed any signs of exhaustion on the job, possibly compromising evidence.

Sighing, Greg turned left at a street light and drove to the edge of the city. Twenty-five minutes later he parked on the side of the road and walked up to the steel gates that blocked the way into the cemetery. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he tried blinking them away, only succeeding in making them fall. He slowly approached the haunting gates, peering through them into the darkness.

He didn't know why he'd come here. But it felt right.

He gripped the bars tightly, his knuckles turning white. He swallowed again, a terrible, eerie feeling clutching his mind, sending trills of unease down his spine. Warrick was in there, beneath six feet of soil, inside of a wooden casket. Greg remembered the casket—its smooth edges, the deep red colour of the wood, the metal clasps, the shine it gave off in the dull sunlight on the day of the burial. He was happy that it was at least a nice looking casket; Warrick deserved the best.

He looked around him. He felt as though he was being watched, but by whom, he did not know. Maybe it was the ghosts that resided here. How many of them were never visited by family members or friends? How many _had_ been visited, but by the one who killed them and gotten free? He wondered how many had been murdered, how many were suicide victims, how many died from natural causes and old age. There were so many tombstones gleaming in the moonlight.

Taking a deep breath and silently asking the ghosts to turn their eyes elsewhere, Greg reached up with his right hand and grasped one of the vertical bars that stretched across the gate and placed his feet on one near the bottom. They were placed approximately two feet apart from each other. Slowly, he climbed up and over the gate, being careful not to cut himself on the sharp edges that protruded from the top rail. He dropped to the ground, his knees bending to absorb the shock. He turned around and began walking down the gravel lane, toward the graveyard.

The eyes were watching him again. They had never left, but he had momentarily forgotten about them as he was climbing the gate. He wondered if the ghosts hated him for trespassing on their turf. But it wasn't like he was a grave robber—he wasn't here to disrespect them, after all. He just wanted to visit his friend.

His footsteps were loud, the pebbles crunching under his weight, even though he stepped as lightly and slowly as he could. He forced his breathing to remain quiet and slow, and willed the hair on the back of his neck to not stand up. The light breeze that passed through the trees and over the graves seemed to whisper to him, though he couldn't decipher the words.

His hands weren't shaking. He didn't know why, but even though he was uneasy, he wasn't scared. No one was going to hurt him here. He meant harm to no one.

He passed underneath the arch that separated the church courtyard and the graveyard. It was assembled of vines, a hedge, and flowers, though he couldn't make out the colours in the darkness. The grass in the graveyard was cut neatly, and it was a square shape, surrounded by trees and shrubs, cutting off the dead from the rest of the living. He took notice of all the headstones—the different shapes, sizes, and colours. He didn't like how some were simple slabs of granite stuck in the ground, rising no higher than the grass, while other headstones rose six feet high, the font larger, as though _this_ man was more important than _that_ woman. There shouldn't be levels of status in a graveyard, he decided; everyone should be equal, with the same size of headstone.

He walked down the rows of headstones, trying to ignore the dozens of invisible eyes drilling holes into his neck and head. The wind's whispers were growing louder, though he still couldn't make out the words.

Or maybe there were none—no eyes, no whispered words—and he was simply wishing for contact from the dead, hoping for Warrick to come back, to tell him what to do.

He finally came up to Warrick's grave. He had a moderately sized headstone, pearl white and gleaming in the moonlight. Greg swallowed hard and noticed the tears were falling again. He took a shuddering breath and fell to his knees.

_Warrick Brown  
__October 10, 1970-May 18, 2008  
__Loved by many and will always be remembered_

Greg stared at the spot where the headstone and ground met. The grass was beginning to grow, the soil still slightly moist. He didn't care if his jeans were getting dirty. He didn't care that he was technically trespassing. He didn't care that Nick was most likely at his apartment at the moment, panicking because Greg's car wasn't in the parking lot. He just didn't _care_ anymore.

Warrick shouldn't have died. He was a good man, and had just been through the most stressful hours in his life. Greg knew what it felt like to be put in the spotlight as a killer, and when he had been declared innocent of the crime, all he'd wanted to do was go home and sleep for years. And he guessed that in a cruel sense, Warrick got to do just that.

But this wasn't right. Warrick had been thirty-eight years old. That wasn't anywhere near old enough to die, and to make it worse, he had been murdered—it wasn't natural causes. No, someone had wanted Warrick Brown out of the picture, so they shot him, in his own car, nonetheless. Greg bent his head forward, the tears streaming down his face. He would never feel safe in a car again—not after Warrick being killed and from his own experiences.

"My God, Warrick," he whispered, staring at the headstone as though it were his friend's face. "What the hell is happening to us?"

He received no response save for the hundred eyes blinking at him and the soft wind ruffling the trees' leaves. He shuddered, a chill rolling up and down his arms. Tearing his gaze from his friend's headstone, he looked over at the line of trees on the graveyard's left side. There were lilac bushes and several other types of deciduous trees. He wished he could see the various shades of violet the lilacs radiated during the day. Anything to get the horrible darkness out of his mind.

He turned his attention back to the headstone. It had a curved top and straight sides; the classic build.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered desperately. "I really, truly, don't know what to do anymore."

He thought about Warrick's death. It was horrible, and still unsolved. They had no idea who had shot him. The gun was found in the passenger's seat, wiped clean of prints, and since Warrick had been parked in an alley, there were no witnesses. He knew nothing else, since the under sheriff didn't want their team investigating; he'd told Ecklie to take care of it.

His eyes widening, Greg focused on the tree line ahead of him, his gaze hazy. It made so much _sense_ now.

Hastily getting to his feet, he touched the top of the headstone.

"I'm going to find out who killed you, Warrick," he said quietly, determinedly. "I'm going to hunt them down and bury them, I swear it. They aren't getting away with this. I promise."

And he walked back to his car and drove home.

* * *

To his chagrin and horror, Nick was leaning against his parked vehicle in the parking lot. Greg parked his car and sat in shock, not believing his eyes. Nick had _stayed?_ Why? Why hadn't he left after seeing that Greg wasn't home? Why hadn't he stayed at the lab in the first place? Why hadn't Grissom come to haul his ass back to work after he left?!

"This isn't happening," he muttered to himself.

He saw Nick glance up, and upon recognizing the vehicle he began walking over to it. Greg contemplated just high tailing it out of there to avoid whatever confrontation was coming. Or maybe he could run past Nick and get to his apartment before the other man. No, that wouldn't work—Nick was the faster runner.

Exhaling shakily, Greg slowly opened the car door and stepped out, standing stock still as Nick approached. Nick stopped when there was only a couple of feet between them, and Greg was thankful that they were close to the same height. At least he wasn't several inches shorter, which would make him feel even smaller than he already did.

"Where in the hell have you been?" Nick exclaimed, his expression one of worry and frustration. "I've been here for an hour and a half, man! What'd you do, take off as soon as you hung up?"

_Yes. Sorry_.

Greg didn't say anything, but only because he physically—or was it mentally?—couldn't. His mouth was dry, his throat coated with panic, and his head wasn't really registering what was happening. He hadn't stood this close to Nick in so long, and God, how he had missed it…

_No_, he scolded himself. _Don't think like that_.

Nick sighed, obviously growing angry by his lack of response.

"You…said you wanted to talk," Greg murmured, his voice scratchy. He wondered if Nick had been able to decipher what he'd said; he barely could himself.

Nick seemed to remember why he was here. "Right," he said. "Yeah, yeah, I did. It just didn't work out like I'd planned."

"Sorry," Greg whispered, though he wasn't sure why he was apologizing.

Shrugging, Nick said, "Can we go up to your apartment to do this, Greg? We're still in the parking lot."

Greg swallowed. "I…I think you should go back to w-work, Nick," he said. He couldn't look him in the eye, so he instead focused on the ground beside Nick's shoes. "Grissom's probably furious that you just up and left—"

"Grissom can wait," Nick said firmly. "We've been ignoring this for too long now, and if him or Cath aren't going to do anything about it, then I am."

Greg's blood ran cold; he could hear his pulse in his ears.

"Ignoring what, exactly?"

Nick narrowed his eyes. "You. Something's obviously up, and you aren't spilling what it is, so I'm going to find out. Grissom figures that since you're still alive and breathing and it isn't affecting your work—_wasn't_ affecting your work, _sorry—_" The spite in his voice made Greg want to run far, far away. "—he figures that there is no problem. And Catherine's been dealing with Lindsay and her own problems, so aside from the random 'Are you okay', she isn't too bothered by it." Greg thought he had it pretty much figured out. "But not me. I know that I haven't really done anything before now, and it's been happening for two years—"

"You're right," Greg interrupted, ignoring the fact that he always told himself to _never_ interrupt Nick. "You never did bother before, so why now? Why not just let me be, Nick?" he finished in a desperate whisper, taking a step back.

Nick took a step forward. "I just lost my best friend," he said quietly, the grief shining in his chocolate eyes. "I don't want to lose another, Greg. And…and I feel like I'm losing you."

Greg looked away. It had taken Nick two years to reach out to Greg. He realized he was trembling. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to let Nick back into his life and see what happened, and yet he wanted Nick to leave so he could go inside and start over again.

But Greg wasn't a machine. He couldn't simply wipe his life clean like a slate. And it had taken him two years to figure this out, to realize that all his struggles to start anew and forget were in vain. He never could have succeeded. He stared into Nick's eyes and felt his knees go weak. God, he loved him so much…

And that was what this was about, wasn't it, what started this whole mess? He couldn't confide in Nick, because Nick was the problem. He was straight. He was always _going_ to be straight. And he saw Greg as nothing more than a friend that was slipping away for reasons unknown.

Staring up towards the sky, Greg swallowed, indecisive. He honestly had no idea what to do anymore. The stars blinked at him. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his gaze so he was staring once more into Nick's eyes.

"You sounded panicked," Greg said, surprised at how flat his tone was. For some reason, he needed to ask this question. "On the phone. Why did you sound so panicked? And that night, when I went to the hospital to see you—you were panicking then, too. Why, Nick?"

Nick looked dumbfounded, as though he hadn't expected anything remotely like what Greg said. Greg hadn't expected it either, actually.

"I… You just scare me sometimes, Greg," Nick said, struggling with his explanation. Greg watched him stumble over his words, oddly satisfied. "When you're, I don't know, freaking out or whatever. That night in the hospital, you'd been acting really odd, and I guess I just thought that… I was just scared that you might do something stupid." He looked abashed at his confession.

"What?" Greg said, surprised. "You thought I was going to…kill myself or something?"

He saw Nick's cheeks darken in the dim lighting.

"And today on the phone," Greg pushed, temporarily forgetting about the predicament. He just wanted to know what _Nick_ was thinking, not himself. He was sick of what went on his head; he needed to know how Nick was affected by all this. "Did you think I was going to do something stupid then, too?"

"I don't know!" Nick said through clenched teeth, frustrated with himself. "I mean, what would you think, if you called me and I completely broke down and kept insisting that you not come over?"

Greg swallowed. "I don't see you as being the suicidal type."

Sighing sharply, Nick muttered, "Well, with the way you've been acting, it honestly wouldn't surprise me." Greg's eyes widened and his stomach lurched. Nick seemed to notice, for a second later his gaze softened and he said, "You have no idea, G, how it makes me feel, saying that, and knowing that I'm not kidding, that it's the truth. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and it's… It scares the hell out of me, Greg! I keep wondering, _What if he doesn't come into work tonight? What if, when I go over to check on him after shift, I find him lying on the floor, bleeding? Or convulsing?_"

Greg trembled harder.

"There—there are some days," he started slowly, his mind detaching itself from the conversation and his gaze focusing some place over Nick's shoulder, "when…when I think about it. You know, the Easier days…"

"Easier days?" Nick asked, his voice quiet. Greg glanced at him and noticed how scared he looked.

Greg smiled grimly. He knew his mind was completely detached; otherwise he wouldn't be speaking in coherent sentences. "When the under sheriff's words keep ringing in my head. I call them the Easier days."

Nick looked absolutely baffled. "What'd he say?" he asked in a hard tone, the kind that Greg didn't know whether he was mad at him or the under sheriff.

He stared at the ground. "'_It would have been so much easier_,'" he said quietly, tonelessly, "'_if you had been the black guy_.'"

Greg didn't look up to see Nick's expression. He knew that the under sheriff's words shouldn't still haunt him—it had been long ago, after all—but he'd been in the same spot in his life for years now, so he decided it wasn't all that weird.

"That bastard," he heard Nick hiss, and he looked back up. He was surprised at the amount of fury in Nick's eyes. "He's such a prick! You shouldn't take him seriously though, Greg—everyone's glad that you survived. We can't…" He seemed to falter. "_I_ can't imagine not having you here anymore."

Greg caught the hidden message: _Don't you dare go and off yourself_. He heard it loud and clear, as though Nick had shouted it from atop Mount Everest and the echo had come rushing down the mountain side, colliding into Greg with a magnificent force.

But Nick meant it as a friend "I can't stand you dying." Not the way Greg wanted, needed, it to be said.

So he remained quiet.

"So…is that the reason you've been acting so differently these past two years?" Nick asked.

Greg snorted. Of course it wasn't just that. What, did Nick think him _that_ weak? Actually…he didn't want to know how weak Nick thought he was.

"I'll take that as a no," Nick said quietly, staring deeply into Greg's eyes. "Please, Greg, just tell me. I want to help you."

Greg shook his head and looked down.

A loud bang made him jump and stare at Nick, wide-eyed, absolutely stunned. Nick was quietly cursing now and holding his fist, which he'd used to punch Greg's Denali.

"That, um… That's the city's car, Nick, you might not want to—"

"Shut up," Nick hissed, and Greg instantly did just that. His mind was quickly returning to his body and he felt his pulse rush through his veins. He began to tremble again (when had he stopped?). "Just shut _up_, Greg!"

Nick began to pace. His hands waved wildly in the air as he yelled, "I don't _understand_ you, Greg! Something's wrong with you, you're feeling _suicidal_, for fuck sakes, and you won't _let me_ _fucking help you!_ Why?!" He stopped pacing and stared Greg straight in the eyes. "Did I do something wrong, Greg? _Did I?_ Because I'm _sorry_ if I did, okay? I'm sorry if I ever hurt you, if I'm the reason or part of the reason that you're so…so…_depressed_. I want you to know that I've never meant to hurt you! I've never meant to ignore you like I have these past months, it's just that I've been so _scared_, and Catherine suggested that if we leave you be for a while you'll figure it out on your own, but you obviously _haven't!_

"I want to help you, Greg," Nick said, calming down, his chest heaving as he took two steps closer to Greg. "I really, really do. You have no idea how scared I've been these past two years, ever since you walked out of the hospital room that night. You just… Something snapped in you, I could tell, and I don't know _what_, and it _frightens_ me! And Warrick…" He inhaled sharply, but kept going. "Warrick's been killed and he was my best friend, and it's made me think about what I would do if _you_ were to die, and I don't think I can handle losing two friends, Greg, I really don't. So please, just…just _tell_ me something, _anything_ that can make me help you…"

Greg saw the tears welling in Nick's eyes and was horrified. He hadn't meant to hurt him. He'd wanted Nick to be okay, and if Greg remained close to him, then he wouldn't be okay—

"I don't know what to do, Nick," Greg whispered. "I've been trying, and it hurts so much, and I don't know what to do anymore."

He walked around Nick, who seemed frozen to the spot, and entered the apartment building.

Nick didn't follow.

-10-


	4. Random Breathing

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title from song quoted below. Happy reading!

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter Three:  
_Random Breathing

* * *

'_Someone please turn the lights back on; I've been wandering here for days, disconnected, in search for new air to breathe in; don't stop breathing, the walls have just begun to spin; I can't keep swimming, can't keep my head up_._' _– Underoath, "Moving For The Sake of Motion"

* * *

**H**e couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. Considering he'd spent most of it at a graveyard and speaking face to face with Nick, though, he wasn't surprised. It wasn't like he had expected to just enter his apartment after his encounter with Nick and fall into a deep, restful sleep. Come to think of it, he hadn't expected to sleep well in a while.

Instead, he lay on top of the covers, his left arm wrapped around his stomach while his right was tucked beneath his head. He stared at the ceiling in a daze, wondering if what had just happened down in the parking lot was real or just a dream. It had seemed so surreal, having Nick standing there waiting for him.

His thoughts on the team's reactions to his two years of isolation were completely turned around, now. Catherine had suggested them leaving him alone so he could work out his problems—when, he didn't know, but Nick had said it was the reason he had avoided Greg, so Greg guessed a few months ago—and Nick had been scared and worried the entire time, wondering if Greg would suddenly commit suicide one night.

Chills ran down Greg's arms as he thought about it. So many days in the past two years, he had considered just ending it all; he'd seen no happy ending in sight, and the under sheriff's words had somehow morphed into everybody's words, making him think that no one would miss him. But Nick's confession and worry were visible proof that that wasn't the case—that Greg would indeed be missed if he died.

This was crazy. Insane. His entire outlook on life was changing tonight, after seeing Nick, of all things. Doubt sank slowly into his mind; was this change good? Would it help him through this? Or was it simply going to make things worse, his mind creating delusions that would only get his hopes up?

Sighing, he closed his eyes turned over onto his side, curling into a ball. His arm was still under his head, his other gripping the bed sheets in a fist. He took a deep breath, wishing everything would just make sense again.

Opening his eyes, his heart stopped. His breathing stopped. The entire _world_ stopped.

Because Nick was standing in the doorway of the bedroom with his right hand behind his back, smiling softly. Greg stared at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed, not knowing what to do or say.

"Hey," Nick greeted quietly, stepping forward into the room. He stopped when he was right beside Greg's bed. "Sorry I didn't knock."

"W-What…" Greg swallowed, trying to get over the shock of having Nick suddenly in his house. "How'd you get in here?"

Nick shrugged, his expression innocent. "The door was unlocked."

His mouth agape, Greg finally began to breathe again. He couldn't believe this. It was just so…_odd_…

"Oh…okay… But, why are you here?"

Nick sighed and knelt down beside the bed, staring at the bed covers. "I wanted to make sure you're all right," he said quietly. "The conversation down there didn't exactly happen as I'd planned, and I got scared that you might…" He stared into Greg's eyes helplessly, and Greg knew what he was trying to say.

"It never crossed my mind," he whispered.

"That's good." Nick nodded, more to himself than to Greg. "Anyway," he said, his voice cheerful, "I brought you these."

Greg's eyes widened again as Nick's hand appeared from behind his back, withered and dead yellow flowers grasped in his light hold. He looked back up to Nick's face and found him smiling brightly, as though he'd brought twenty one hundred dollar bills instead of wilted flowers.

"I… What?" His voice was tainted with his confusion.

Nick glanced down at the flowers and shrugged blissfully. "I thought they were pretty," he said. "They reminded me of you."

"They're dead," Greg deadpanned.

Nick frowned. "Oh…but they weren't two years ago…" He flicked one of them with his thumb and middle finger. Several petals fell onto the bed. "Damn," he muttered. Suddenly all the flowers' petals began to fall, detaching from the stem and sliding through the air, coming to rest on Greg's bed sheets.

Nick's eyes widened in panic. "Why are they falling apart?" he exclaimed.

Greg's head was spinning; he could feel a headache coming on.

"Okay…okay," he said as Nick began muttering to himself, picking up the petals and trying to magically glue them back onto the flowers. "Okay! Nick!" Nick snapped his attention to Greg immediately. "Let's, um…" He thought quickly for something to distract his distraught friend. "Coffee!" he exclaimed. "Coffee! Would you like some coffee, Nick? Damn, I would just _love_ to have some…"

He hopped out of bed, throwing the comforter and shuffling the yellow flower petals around in the process. Nick stood up and followed him into the kitchen. Greg ignored the fact that while Nick was fully clothed, all he himself had on was a pair of old boxers.

They stood in silence while the coffee machine created the wonderful liquid blend, and when it was finished Greg poured some into two cups and they sat down at the kitchen table. Neither of them sipped at their steaming drinks, though.

Thinking for something to say, Greg started, "Nick—"

The doorbell suddenly rang, its piercing notes echoing through the air and shattering Greg's thoughts. He jumped at the noise, panicking when it didn't stop, slowly getting louder and louder until it sounded more like an alarm than anything else…

"I don't have a doorbell!" he yelled at Nick, his voice unnaturally high pitched. "I don't have a doorbell!"

He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his ears, willing the sound to disappear.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bedroom, and he was curled up with his right arm in between his head and the pillow, facing the doorway. The noise had stopped.

Taking several seconds to calm his frantic heart, Greg inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. He didn't fall asleep, but only because he wouldn't let himself.

* * *

"Sanders," Ecklie said sharply. "In my office, please."

Greg considered closing his eyes and imagining five different ways he could kill the smug bastard behind closed doors, without getting caught. Sighing, he decided against it and followed the balding man into his office.

"Take a seat," his boss offered.

Greg sat, his back straight and his jaw set.

Ecklie leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him.

"How's work been, so far?" he asked. "Are you getting along well with the team?"

_As if you haven't asked them already_, he thought.

"Everything's fine," he replied.

"That's good, that's good," Ecklie murmured, nodding to himself and staring down at his desk. Greg resisted the urge to tear the armrests off his chair.

"As you may or may not know, day shift is taking care of Warrick Brown's death."

_Holy shit_.

"Yeah, I know." His voice was tight with emotion.

Ecklie nodded again. "I was wondering if you feel like you're up to joining the investigation, if you won't get too emotionally involved, of course." He stared Greg in the eye again. "Don't feel obligated to answer yes; I would completely understand if you don't want to. You two were friends, were you not?"

_No, Ecklie_, he wanted to answer. _We were complete enemies, actually. Planned ways to destroy each other's lives on our breaks. Did I ever tell you about the time that I caught him wiring a bomb in the men's bathroom?_

"Yeah, we were friends."

"We would just like everybody on our team working on it. It's an important case, after all."

Something inside Greg snapped.

"I'll do it," he said through clenched teeth. He stood up, feeling superior to Ecklie now that he was taller than him. "But don't ever refer to Warrick as a _case_, Ecklie. He was worth _way_ more than being one of the faces in your files."

He turned around swiftly and left the room, in search of someone from his new team.

* * *

Standing in layout room two, Greg and Malcolm Niles spread the evidence out over the table. He liked Malcolm, as a person. He was dedicated and serious about his work, though maybe a touch too closed up with his emotions—Greg was absolutely certain that he would never be having a heart to heart with the man. It would be like spilling out all your secrets to a rock.

"Okay," Greg said. "So, what do we have so far?"

Malcolm pointed to each of the photos or bags of evidence as he listed everything off. "Photos of the crime scene, photos of the victim—" Here Greg resisted the gag reflex as he focused on his friend's bloody and still form. "—the gun on the passenger seat, broken glass fragments on the driver's side, blood pool on the driver's seat and steering wheel… That's about it."

"That's it?" Greg asked. "That's all you guys have?"

Malcolm shot him a hard look. "There were no footprints leading up to the car and no fingerprints other than Brown's, so yes, that's all we have."

"What about the gun?"

"Wiped clean."

"And tossed on the passenger seat?"

"Yup."

Greg sighed, his gaze reluctantly drifting back over to the photos of Warrick. He felt Malcolm's eyes boring into the side of his head, but he just couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't like Malcolm was going to say anything about it.

"Do we still have his car?" he asked, staring at Malcolm again.

The other CSI nodded. "It's in the garage. They were planning on moving it today, but Ecklie told us to wait until you've had a shot at it."

Greg's eyes widened, and his surprise must have shown on his face, for Malcolm added, "He said it was just to give everyone a try."

Greg nodded, staring down at Warrick's pictures again. He felt tears stinging the back of his eyes and, horrified, blinked rapidly and turned so that Malcolm couldn't see his face.

_What's wrong with you?_ he screamed at himself. _Keep yourself together! You're at work! Fall apart when you're at home again!_

Picking up the photo of the handgun, Greg's blood boiled and he glared at the damned picture. His hands were shaking. He dropped the photo and stuck them in his pants pockets. He swallowed, trying to make the urge to throw up disappear.

He had to do this.

"I'll be in here for a while," he said as calmly as he could, though his voice still shook somewhat. He turned to look at Malcolm. "You can go work on another case, or something. I'm sure you've looked at this enough times to have it memorized." He smiled sweetly, though it held a dangerous tone to it as well—_You'd better have it nearly memorized_.

"The under sheriff came just a few minutes ago and said that the case is close to being closed," Malcolm said.

"What?!" Greg exclaimed. His blood ran cold. "But you don't even have any suspects yet!"

Malcolm simply stared at him, as though he were trying to communicate through his gaze.

"You aren't… This was _not_ a suicide!" Greg shouted. His heart was beating frantically, trying to reach out to his brain and tell it to slow down and make _sense_. "He got shot in the neck!"

Malcolm merely shrugged with one shoulder and left the room, closing the door behind him.

This was impossible. This wasn't happening.

Turning back to the photos, Greg stared hard at the handgun. It looked like the ones CSIs used. His eyes beginning to narrow, he searched through one of the cardboard boxes lined up on the table and flipped through the day shift team's reports, looking for the files on the gun.

'_Appears to have been wiped down for prints, or holder wore gloves_.'

'_No prints_.'

'_Positioned on passenger seat, handle facing victim_.'

Something wasn't right, he just knew it. Flicking through several more pages, he came across the reports for the car. He was surprised to find out that the passenger side window had been rolled down, something everybody else had failed to mention. He noticed that it was in Malcolm's report. All the others hadn't written down this little fact.

Growing suspicious, Greg looked through several other files and was shocked and outraged at what he found.

'_Single gunshot wound to right temple_.'

'_Bullet removed; match to victim's handgun_.'

'_Upward angle on gunshot wound, suggesting victim held the gun; probable suicide_.'

Greg's heart stopped beating and his knees went weak. He turned back to Malcolm's files—everything in his was different than the others. He reported two gunshot wounds to the neck, both bullets removed and matched to the type CSIs used… But no other evidence. His breathing erratic, Greg grabbed all the files and left the layout room, heading straight for Ecklie's office.

He didn't know how he got there. He remembered nothing but a blur, and the pounding in his head. The lights were far too bright, and the walls were spinning.

What was happening to the world around him? Why were the walls crumbling to ash, the sky darkening into night?

* * *

It was the middle of August, 2004.

They were sitting at the back of the diner, each reading the breakfast menu. Warrick and Nick hadn't even bothered to change out of their vests—it had been a long shift, and as Nick had put it when they got back to the lab to drop off the evidence, "It makes us look buff." So they'd opted to wearing their vests and changing after filling their stomachs.

Greg's stomach rumbled. "This is bull," he mumbled. "I don't think I've worked that long since…ever."

"Get used to it, Greg-o," Nick said, a small smile on his face. He scanned the menu from the top again. "Wait until you become a CSI."

"Now _that_ is hell," Warrick said. "You know, I think I'm going to take the Jumbo Pancakes."

Greg frowned at his friend. "I thought maple syrup makes your stomach ache?"

"To hell with it. I'm hungry."

Greg and Nick chuckled. Becoming interested in the basic plate of eggs, toast, bacon and sausage, Greg placed his menu down on the table and folded it closed. A minute later Nick did the same, claiming he was going to take a smaller portion of pancakes.

"I don't even have to worry about a sore stomach," he added, and Warrick playfully glared at him.

* * *

He burst into his boss' office and slammed the door behind him. Luckily, Ecklie was alone, but Greg didn't really care at this moment. "What is going on around here?!"

"Excuse me, Sanders?" Ecklie said dangerously.

"Warrick!" Greg threw the files down on his desk. "'_Probable suicide_'?!"

Ecklie slowly reached over and grabbed the papers, skimming through them. "The under sheriff just spoke with me," he said quietly, still reading the files. "He said that the case has been solved, and that we're to move on from it."

"He was shot!" Greg said in disbelief. "Twice! In the neck!"

Ecklie sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "If the under sheriff says it's done, it's done, Sanders. You need to move on from it."

"How many cases have you heard of," Greg hissed, "where the victim committed suicide, and _shot themselves in the neck?!_"

"Move on from it, Greg!" Ecklie snapped, glaring at him. "Here." He slid an assignment over to him, across the desk. "Female DB found in a dumpster, half naked, a pretty gruesome scene. Everyone else is on a scene, so you'll be doing it alone."

Greg grabbed the paper and unceremoniously shoved it in his pocket, not caring that it got crinkled. He was too busy trying to control his breathing, and willing himself not to break down and destroy this office and this _man_ all at the same time.

_Watch yourself, Ecklie_.

He swiftly spun on his heel and exited the room, heading for the garage. He had a scene to process. Once he was done that, he would figure something out.

* * *

It really was a gruesome scene.

She looked to be in her early twenties, maybe late teens. Her blond hair was soaked with blood and splayed out in many directions, some strands stuck to her face in the dried crimson liquid. He grimaced at the way her limbs were bent at odd angles. Snapping some pictures of the dumpster, he waited for the coroner to show up, which took about five minutes.

"She's been dead for eight hours," he said after taking the liver temperature. Greg nodded. "Cause of death is exsanguination from a knife wound to the throat."

Greg nodded to himself. "Slit throat," he muttered. "Thanks, I'll take it from here."

The coroner left the crime scene and Greg climbed into the dumpster. He felt enclosed, as though this was his own body dump, not the girl's. He wondered if he would be murdered, and end up in a dumpster, found by a random and unimportant woman who just wanted to put out her trash.

He didn't want to be some faceless victim in the crime lab's library of bodies. He didn't want Doc Robbins performing an autopsy on him to find out how he died. He didn't want Grissom and the team processing the scene of his death and apprehending his murderer. He didn't want to be murdered, period.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn't know how he wanted to die. It wasn't a pleasant topic to ponder on, but he figured that everyone did it at some point in his or her life, so why not now? Why not right after his friend's death, and while he was trying to find out who killed this innocent girl?

He wanted to die unconsciously, or suddenly. No long, painful death. He didn't want to think while he died. He didn't want to see what was happening around him as he slowly slipped away, separated himself from the living. He didn't want to be murdered—he absolutely loathed the thought of somebody ending his life before he deemed it necessary to end. But if he really was murdered, and if it was slow and agonizing, then any way was preferable over being in an explosion, burning, or being beaten to death. Anything but those options.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and took more photos of the body. He made the mistake of staring into her eyes. They were wide open, nerve-racking fear and surprise radiating from them. He stopped breathing. She had dark brown eyes, the exact same shade as Nick's. With a shaking hand he reached out, as though about to touch her face, but froze halfway. The rest of her body disappeared, the dumpster vanishing into the back of his mind, as he was completely enveloped by the thuds of his racing heart, the colour of her eyes shining in the sun's rays, the rushing of his pulse in his head, his lungs caving in without oxygen.

He quickly shut his eyes and brought his trembling hands up to rub his face. He stared at the sky for a while, marvelling at how blue it was. Not a cloud in the sky. A sad longing dripped into his stomach. He missed the night sky…the stars blinking down at him…the bright moon illuminating the city, and casting shadows over the ground…

Inhaling shakily through his mouth, Greg looked back down at the girl. He noticed all the blood around her, around him, and felt sick to his stomach. It could have been Nick's blood. Nick's eyes penetrating his own. Nick's body dumped unceremoniously in this gritty dumpster.

Greg pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead and forced himself to breathe.

* * *

As he sluggishly entered his apartment and locked the door behind him, Greg closed his eyes, exhaled, and rested his head against the cool wood.

It had been a long shift. He'd put in several hours of overtime, and when he'd returned to the lab swing shift was bustling around, most of day shift gone home to catch up on some much needed sleep. He had wanted to look more into Warrick's case, but he was absolutely shattered and had already tripped three times because he couldn't lift his feet high enough off the ground, so he decided to go home, get some rest, and come back the next day and work from there.

And now, here he was, turning around and noticing a flashing red number one on his answering machine. Sighing, he collapsed onto the couch and pressed Play, curling into a sideways ball and burying his head in the pillow that rested against the armrest.

"_Hey, Greg, it's Nick_…"

He bolted upright, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. _Jesus Christ! Why won't he leave me alone?_ he moaned in his mind, his eyes immediately filling with tears as he pressed himself as far into the back of the couch as possible, hoping it would just swallow him up and he would disappear forever.

"_Um… Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I know that I came on a little strong, or angry, or something, but really, Greg, you have to know that I'm just worried about you and I'm looking out for you. I know that something's wrong, and the way you left…_"

There were several moments of silence, in which Greg didn't breathe. "_Anyway, what I'm trying to say _is..." Nick sighed. "_Damn it, Greg, what the hell is going on?! All I'm trying to do is help, and you keep pushing me away and acting like you don't even _want_ to be helped! And the thing that really bugs me is that last night, when I asked if I did something wrong, you didn't answer me. Please, Greg, just tell me what I did, and I'll try to fix it. I'm…I'm tired of you pushing me away, G. Of you pushing everybody away_."

Greg breathed again, though rapidly and erratically. His face was pressed into the back of the couch. He hoped he would just smother himself to death so he didn't have to hear this anymore.

"_So…I guess this is it, Greg. This is the last time I'm going to ask you what's wrong, because if you don't want my help, then I'm not going to give it to you. If you don't call me back, I'll get the hint. It'll be over…whatever friendship we have left, anyway. And I know that Catherine feels the same way. You mean a lot to us, bud, but if you keep acting this way, then we're just going to let you go. There's only so much we can do. I'm sorry it's like this, Greg-o_."

There was a beep and a disembodied female voice stated that the message was finished, and that it had been left just an hour ago.

Greg stared unblinkingly into the kitchen, tears obstructing his vision, his breathing quiet and slow.

It was really over this time.

-9-

Meanings of objects/places in dreams (according to www(dot)dreammoods(dot)com.)

**Bedroom:** To dream that you are in the bedroom, signifies aspects of your self that you keep private. It is also indicative of your sexual nature.

**Flowers:** To see withered or dead flowers in your dream, denotes disappointments and gloomy situations. You may not be utilizing your full potential and talents.

**Yellow:** If the dream is an unpleasant one, the colour represents cowardice and sickness. You may have a fear or inability to make a decision or take action. As a result, you are experiencing many setbacks.

**Coffee:** To dream that you are drinking coffee with someone, indicates that you might have feelings for that person.

**Doorbell:** To dream that you hear or ring a doorbell, foretells of unexpected news that is most likely going to be negative.


	5. Flash White

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title comes from the song quoted below. Happy reading!

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter four:  
_Flash White

* * *

'_I see nothing but disaster…now I'm taking you with me; here again, the floor is more fitting for my face; as you dig your feet in I will sink my teeth into the floor, while I lay here alone; aware of every step, I'm not aware at all; black…flash white…I am awake.'_ – Underoath, "Returning Empty Handed"

* * *

**T**he cold water hit his face cruelly, shocking his senses and freezing him in place, but he didn't care. He needed to stay awake, stay attentive. He couldn't afford to stop functioning now. Not ever. He needed to keep going.

His entire body trembled from the nearly unbearable temperature of the water, a dark chill engulfing his muscles and seizing them in its grasp. He took a shuttering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing his hands against the wall, his head bent low, letting the droplets slide off his shoulders. He was having trouble breathing, but not from his runaway emotions—no, this time it was from his body's shock because of the freezing shower. It felt good, having his feelings and thoughts destroyed, if only temporarily, and erased from his mind.

He opened his eyes and tilted them upwards, watching the water fall through his lashes and bangs. They stung from the water hitting them. He coughed and shook his head, his wet hair becoming even more plastered to his forehead.

For several more minutes he simply stood under the torturous spray, restless. He wanted to switch on the hot water so he could breathe easily again and so his body could relax, but he also wanted to continue standing there, letting the icy water freeze his thoughts and emotions in place so he didn't have to deal with them.

Closing his eyes again, he rested his forehead against the wall.

Two minutes later he turned on the hot water. Though it made him ashamed, he wanted to think about Nick again.

* * *

He'd boarded the earliest flight to Vegas, dropping his meetings with his publisher, consequently pissing her off and destroying any plans he had of ever publishing his book. He had been numb, absolutely stunned, when Grissom's words slowly registered in his head.

"_Warrick's dead, Greg_."

He was at the airport in Las Angeles, standing beside a depressed-looking thirty-some man wearing an oversized sweatshirt and jeans with holes in the knees, waiting for his luggage to arrive. The man was due for a shave and haircut.

At first it didn't mean anything to him. Imagine, picking up your cell phone, pressing Talk, saying hello, and hearing that your friend is dead. He didn't understand for several moments, which he spent in silence, his brain trying to catch up to his ears. He simply held the phone to his ear loosely, staring straight ahead at the back of the balding man's head who was in front of him.

"What?" He didn't even stutter. He was that stunned.

Grissom was silent for a second before repeating himself. "_Warrick's dead_."

Frowning, Greg gripped the cell phone harder and abruptly turned his head towards one of the many windows. All he could see were clouds and the tiny dot that was a plane off in the distance.

"Don't mess with me, Griss," he said in a low voice. "I know I didn't do all that much to help free Warrick, but come on, this isn't even f—"

"_I'm not messing with you, Greg_." And he believed him; he felt his stomach clench and his blood turned to ice. "_Warrick…he's dead_."

"No," Greg said matter-of-factly. "No, Griss, you've got it wrong, see, I just talked with him, like, what…" He checked his watch. "A few hours ago? You sure you've slept lately?"

"_He's dead, Greg_," Grissom said in a gruff voice, and he then hung up.

Several seconds passed in silence, where Greg vaguely felt Depressed Man staring at him languidly. He realized he wasn't breathing, and sharply inhaled. His lungs gave him the finger and continued to function as normal, but his brain didn't. He was frozen in place, his hand still holding his cell phone at his ear, the dial tone echoing in his head, while his left hand clutched the hem of his shirt so tight his nails were leaving permanent marks.

His right elbow gradually unlocked and he lowered his hand, and he stared at his phone as though it were an alien piece of scrap metal. He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the keys, hurriedly dialling Grissom's number, completely forgetting that he had the man on speed dial.

"_Grissom_." He sounded tired, defeated.

"How?" Greg asked desperately, his voice high pitched and panicky. He noticed he was trembling. "What… When… _Grissom?!_"

He heard Grissom sigh and it did nothing to calm him down. His breathing shortened and quickened. Depressed Man was definitely staring at him now, as was Balding Man, who, when Greg quickly glanced at him, he noticed had an abundance of wrinkles.

"_Nick…found him, not too long ago, in his car_."

"In his car?!" Several people glanced him, but he ignored them.

"_He was…murdered, Greg_."

He blinked heavenward, tears welling in his eyes. His voice dropped back down to a whisper. "No, you're wrong, Griss. You've…you've mistaken him, or something… Who would want t-to…" He couldn't even say it.

"_Greg_…"

And then it all clicked. Warrick was dead. Warrick was really, truly, dead. This was no joke. Grissom had had plenty of sleep. This wasn't a fucking joke. Warrick was dead.

Greg's face hardened and turned to stone, and his breathing quieted. He stared forcefully at the back of Balding Man's head, as though if, by penetrating it with his gaze, he would see into the secrets of the universe and find out _why_ this had happened.

He hung up without saying goodbye. He shoved his phone in his jeans pocket, staring resolutely forward at the suitcases passing slowly by. Balding Man was reading some magazine. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Depressed Man lean towards him.

"What's up, man?" the guy whispered hoarsely in a zoned-out voice. Greg turned to look at him, his face numb. "Something wrong?"

Greg didn't answer.

"I can…" The man leaned more forward until he was only inches away from Greg's face. He smelled disgusting. Like week-old weed and Vodka. "I can hook you up, y'know…with some stuff, when we get outta here. Where you goin'?"

"Tempting," Greg said flatly. "But no thanks."

The man stared at him, as though he was trying to analyze him. Greg would have loved for him to try.

"Somethin's, like, up with you," Depressed Man said in a mysterious voice. "I can tell. I have…problems, y'know?"

"That sucks," Greg said. His fists were clenching and unclenching.

The man grinned lopsidedly at him. "My girlfriend dumped me. We went out for three years, or somethin'…and then, right outta nowhere, she says she wants to see other people. I moved here for her, y'know?"

"Yeah, that sucks. My friend was just murdered."

Balding Man turned around at this. Greg glared at him.

"Got a problem?" he snapped.

The older man furrowed his brow and huffed, turning back around to his magazine.

"Ah, that blows, man," Depressed Man said. "Like, really blows…below the belt kinda blow."

Greg sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his right hand into his forehead. A tear glided down his cheek, slipping off and landing on his shirt. And Greg wondered just how many times someone could say the word _dead_ in a conversation.

* * *

"Malcolm!"

The CSI stopped walking and turned around, facing Greg with a blank stare. He was holding the DNA results from his latest case—murder suicide right outside of Las Vegas. Ecklie had three of them working on it, though not Greg.

"Malcolm," he said, slightly out of breath, as he halted in front of the taller man. "Listen, can I talk to you for a second?"

"About what?"

Greg glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody was in ear shot.

"Warrick," he murmured, staring pleadingly into Malcolm's eyes. Indecision briefly flashed over Malcolm's face and Greg added a small "Please?" to get him to give, and he did, after several moments of silence.

"But not here," he said quickly, and Greg nodded and led him off to an empty layout room.

Malcolm closed the door behind him and stood against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his face devoid of emotions once again. Greg found it slightly creepy, not knowing what the other man was thinking and feeling. He was used to Grissom's stony features, but at least he still showed emotions when need be, and they lasted longer than one or two seconds.

Greg reached into his jacket and pulled out the file folder he'd hidden it in. Cliché and a bit melodramatic, yes; but at least no one had suspected. And Warrick's case was 'solved', so there was no reason for anyone to go looking for his files. At least, Greg hoped as much.

He stood so he was facing the glass walls, in case someone walked by and he could hide anything that was too obvious. Malcolm quietly walked forward and stopped opposite him, successfully blocking people's view somewhat.

"Okay," Greg said in still hushed tones, as though someone was listening right at that moment. "Ecklie said that the under sheriff told us to close this as a suicide?"

Malcolm nodded, his gaze fixed on the open file folder. The page staring back at them was a profile picture of Warrick's upper half, his head slumped over the steering wheel, his right hand resting against the dashboard, and his open eyes seeing into the unknown. Greg swallowed and willed himself not to focus on it.

"But why?" he continued. "Why close a CSI's case so abruptly? I mean, there was hardly any investigation. And as a suicide? At least make it believable, if you're trying to do this, don't you think?"

Malcolm didn't say anything for a moment, and Greg feared that he'd asked the wrong person to help him. Would Malcolm immediately tell Ecklie that Greg wasn't letting it be, after he left? Would Greg be put on suspension, or switched back to nights, or fired?

But his doubts vanished once Malcolm spoke again.

"Nobody really believes it," he started slowly, still concentrating solely on the photo. "We have our doubts, but Ecklie said that it was closed, so… And none of us could really call him a friend. We didn't know him enough."

Anger bubbled up within Greg. "So you just thought it was okay to bury this? Stage it as a suicide, when it clearly wasn't?"

Malcolm stared hard at him, then went back to looking at the picture. "Everyone else might, but I didn't. I didn't change my report, as you can see."

Guilt instantly pushed away the anger. Greg swallowed again, turning the papers until he found Malcolm's report, which still held the truth, unlike all the others.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You're trying to help, here; I shouldn't be blaming you."

Malcolm just shrugged.

"It isn't even believable, anyway," he said, as though that summed up all the reasons why he was defying both Ecklie and the under sheriff's orders.

Greg gave him a small smile, which held a hint of sadness to it.

"So, everything in your report is the truth? You didn't miss anything?"

"That's everything that I saw and noted. If I missed anything, it was probably on or in the car—I only helped process the body."

Greg nodded. "Do we still have the car here?"

Malcolm was silent a moment, thinking. "I think so; it's probably in the garage. I overheard one of our lab techs talking with one of night shift's about Grissom getting into an argument with Ecklie about keeping it for another day or two."

Greg frowned. "For graveyard to process?"

"No, so we can keep trying." Malcolm's lips upturned into a lop-sided smile for a moment. "I don't think he knows that the case is closed yet."

"It isn't a case," Greg corrected him automatically in a toneless voice. "It's Warrick; not some stranger."

Malcolm stared at him for a second before nodding to himself and flipping through another report. He snorted.

"As if," he muttered. "This is ridiculous."

"I thought so, too."

"Well, I know that there wasn't much processing of his car; want to go take a look at it?"

Greg nodded, relieved to be doing something useful, instead of simply complaining in a layout room with papers in front of him. He hurriedly gathered up all the photos and reports and stuffed the folder back into his jacket.

"I'll drop it off in my locker," he said. "I'll probably just get caught if I keep taking it from the evidence room."

"I thought you didn't have a lock on your locker?" Malcolm asked as they exited the layout room and closed the door behind them.

"I do now." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue and purple lock. "I had some time to think last night, so I…" He faltered for a second, breaking eye contact with Malcolm. "I thought about this and I went and bought one."

It wasn't all that true; in reality, he'd spent quite a while—several hours, actually—on his couch, in shock after listening to Nick's voice message. He had then listened to it again to make sure what he'd heard was right, and upon realizing it was, he'd curled up into himself and barely breathed for another hour before something—he couldn't remember now—changed his train of thought to Warrick's case and he had thought up all this.

They entered the locker room, and while Greg locked away the file folder, Malcolm grabbed his kit.

When they closed the garage door behind them, bile rose into Greg's throat and he bit his lip. Warrick's car sat innocently before him, and it reminded Greg again that his friend was, indeed, dead. Murdered.

_Not_ suicide.

He dragged himself to the passenger door and looked in, noting that the window was still rolled down. Warrick's blood was on the driver's seat and dashboard where his hand had rested. Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself not to crumble. As it was, he was already trembling; he didn't need to have a complete meltdown… He would never get another chance to do this, if that ever happened.

"The bullets," he said in a strained voice. Malcolm walked around the car so he was at the driver's side, and grunted to show he was listening. "Did they… Where did you find them?"

"One was in his neck."

"What about the other one?"

Malcolm paused and Greg's stomach flipped. "We didn't find it."

"You didn't… _What?!_"

"I told you, Greg, this ca— _Warrick_ was barely investigated." It was a small triumph, but Greg was glad that Malcolm had stopped himself from calling this a case. "My guess is, it went through his neck and shattered the window, and imbedded itself in the building wall."

"All right," Greg said through slightly clench teeth. "So, let's process this, and then go find the bullet."

"And do what with it, Greg?" Greg looked up to meet Malcolm's questioning and sympathetic gaze. "What can we do with any of the evidence we find?"

Greg didn't have an answer.

Malcolm sighed and straightened up, though Greg still remained crouched over the rolled down window with his flashlight focusing on the blood splatter.

"Nobody will listen to us," Malcolm continued. "It's been closed, Greg; we can lose our jobs for looking further into it."

"We can…we can give it to Grissom," Greg suggested, thinking quickly. "So that he can do something with it."

Malcolm snorted. "And how will he explain that? His whole team will get into trouble, too."

Becoming frustrated and irritated, Greg straightened and said loudly, "I don't care, all right? I don't give a damn what happens after we find the evidence; I just want to _do_ this, okay?! For Warrick!"

"Listen, Greg, whatever you find can't be used to—"

"It damn well better be used!" he almost shouted. The fury was overwhelming, pumping through his veins, drowning all of his senses, until he felt nothing but the blinding anger. "Warrick didn't fucking kill himself, Niles! And I'll prove it, if it's the last thing I ever fucking _do!_ Now are you going to help me, or _not?_"

Malcolm was silent for a second before he walked around the car again. Greg was about to jump him in rage for turning his back on the investigation, when he saw that the other man was simply grabbing his kit.

"Let's get started," Malcolm said simply, and Greg slowly began to breathe again.

* * *

It was sometime in May, last year.

Greg was working a scene with Nick, and unfortunately, the crime scene was only the space of a tiny back alley, so he was always in close proximity to the other man. He swore he hadn't breathed easily ever since hearing who he was partnered with in the break room. But this wasn't his first time working with Nick, and would most likely not be his last, so he figured he should suck it up and just do it. Maybe ignoring Nick would help.

It didn't, not really.

Nick had tried starting several conversations in the car on their way to the body dump, and Greg had answered in small sentences each time. Nick had gotten the hint that he wasn't going to talk about halfway there, and the rest of the ride had been spent in uneasy silence…or at least it was uncomfortable to Greg; Nick had kept his eyes on the road.

Now they were at the scene, parking. Greg exited the Tahoe quickly and made his way towards Brass.

"What've we got?" Nick asked. Greg decided to remain silent and simply gather all the information he could. His heart was beating erratically just from being a few feet away from the Texan.

Brass turned his attention to them.

"The victim is Frank Kentmore, age fifty-six, owner of the restaurant right beside us. We're interviewing the employees right now. Coroner's already here and is waiting for you guys to give the okay."

Nick nodded. Brass walked away, and Nick turned to Greg, who was determinedly looking straight ahead.

"Greg? Where's your kit?"

"Shit," he said. He turned on his heel and walked back to the Tahoe, cursing himself for being so stupid. How could he leave his kit in the car? Great; now Nick would probably laugh at him and think him an idiot.

When he returned, Nick was smiling in amusement. Greg felt the humiliation curl in his stomach and flush his face, and he stared at the ground in front of him.

"All right," Nick said, still grinning. "Let's get started."

* * *

They found a print on the outside of the car, just under the passenger side window. Greg guessed that when Warrick rolled down the window, the person had put his hand there in a friendly gesture.

He smirked as he lifted the print from the car.

"Found something?" he heard Malcolm ask from the driver's side.

"Oh yeah."

Malcolm glanced up and smiled triumphantly before turning back to his work. He pulled out a swab and dragged it through the blood on the dashboard. Greg knew it would come back as Warrick's, but they needed everything to be done right, and that included proving _everything_ they found.

He stared at the print for a moment, determining its size.

"Probably a partial palm print," he said casually. He was in high spirits all of a sudden—they were _getting somewhere!_ He was avenging Warrick; giving him what he really deserved, not some covered up story for whatever reasons.

"All right." Malcolm got out of the car and gently closed the door. "Now, how will we get all this processed without being seen?"

"I can do the DNA," Greg offered instantly. He'd been thinking about that, too, and figured that if they could manage to sneak into the lab, then he could run everything.

Malcolm nodded and pocketed the swab. "Which means we'll have to stay behind after shift so that Ecklie doesn't see us, but we can't do it together often because it'll raise suspicion."

"So what do we do today?"

Malcolm looked to be in thought for a moment before he answered. "We'll go home, sleep, then come back tomorrow and identify the blood. We'll leave the print for another few days."

"Another few _days?_" Greg asked incredulously. He stepped away from the car and stared Malcolm in the eyes. "Are you crazy? His killer's still out there! He can be in Australia or something by the time we find out who it is!"

Malcolm's eyes hardened. "We can't be suspicious, Greg. Do some overtime when you have an actual case that requires it, to make it believable for everyone. And go into the lab when nobody else will be there for a while. I'll run the print through AFIS whenever I can, but until then, we have to lie low."

Sighing, Greg nodded dejectedly. "But what about the car?" he asked quietly. "They're going to be getting rid of it soon, aren't they?"

"Let's just hope Grissom can convince Ecklie otherwise."

* * *

_Perfect_, he thought bitterly. This was just fucking _perfect_.

Fate was a bitch and a half. He had decided it years ago, but now he was once again realizing just how _bad_ Fate could be.

Here he was, standing in the break room pouring himself a cup of coffee from his hidden stash that nobody knew about yet, and who should come walking in, but Nick? At the end of day shift, too. He worked _night_ shift; Greg couldn't figure why the hell he was having to deal with this today.

They both stiffened upon seeing each other. Greg swallowed and noticed Nick's eyes harden and soften at the same time, somehow. He never could understand how Nick could do that, show his emotions through his eyes, but he did know that he loved it and wished that—

_No!_ he screamed at himself desperately. _Don't think like that! You have to stop!_

He noticed his hands were sweating, and it wasn't because of the scalding hot cup of coffee he was holding. Nick still hadn't moved from the doorway; his right hand was leaning against it and he was resting his weight on one foot, his hip jutting out slightly. It made Greg tense and uneasy, with all the butterflies attacking his insides. They weren't just flying around, like they would on a warm summer's day—no, they were frantically flapping their wings and hitting his shell, desperately searching for any way out of this situation.

He looked away and turned his body so he was facing Nick sideways. He always hated facing him, because that meant exposing himself.

He heard Nick's soft footsteps enter the room, and to his horror, approach him. The other man stood behind him for a second before his arm brushed against Greg's back, causing him to flinch and nearly drop his coffee. He quickly glanced at Nick and saw that he was simply reaching for the cup of coffee. He really needed to calm himself down.

He was facing the counter now, standing side by side with Nick. He watched silently as the other man poured himself a cup of coffee, and afterwards lean against the counter on his hip, sipping at it.

He had completely forgotten that it was his own coffee in the machine until Nick commented on it.

"Do they know where your stash is hidden?" he asked with his mouth hidden behind his cup, so Greg didn't know if he was smiling or not.

"Um…" He dragged his gaze away from Nick's hypnotic brown eyes. "No, I don't think so. But they aren't as, you know…into the whole game as you guys were. I just… I guess I just hide it out of habit."

That was probably the most coherent and longest group of sentences he'd said to Nick in a _long_ time. He wondered if Nick noticed it too.

"Yeah, we miss the good coffee. You know the stuff the lab provides is motor oil."

Was this Nick's way of making him feel guilty for leaving? Because it was working.

"Um…sorry." He stared into the sink, memorizing what the drain looked like.

"Grissom hasn't replaced you yet."

_Replaced_. Greg felt he could be sick. The butterflies were screaming now, wailing in despair.

"R-Really?"

"Yeah." He felt Nick's hard stare on his face, and his cheeks burned. "I think he thinks you're going to come back. That you just left to figure some stuff out, and transfer back when you're ready."

His hands were trembling now. Great.

"Um…I…"

Nick abruptly pushed himself away from the counter and placed his half-full cup in the sink. Something in Greg's heart shattered. Nick never used to waste his coffee; was it something against him?

"Why are you in so early?" Greg blurted, his subconscious begging to be close to Nick just for a little longer.

Nick turned back to him, his face still blank. "I have to cover for swing shift." He glanced at the clock. "Your shift was over a while ago. You pulling a double?"

Greg bit his tongue and shook his head, gripping his cup harder.

Nick began walking out again.

"So leave."

He felt the butterflies wilt and die from exhaustion.

"Okay," he whispered to the empty room. Nick obviously didn't want him around any longer than necessary.

He placed his half-full cup in the sink, realizing that he didn't really like his coffee that much anymore, either.

-10-


	6. Your Exterior

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title from the song quoted below. Thanks to sasukesmyemo394, DemonUntilDeath, CountToEight, and happyharper13 for reviewing! Happy reading! :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter five:  
_Your Exterior

* * *

'_So let's not even try, you're right; it's becoming all so clear in my mind; hold your breath…bottle it up and save it for the next one; it's never safe to rely on borrowed time; now we're both undone, and it's time to open up your eyes; this all needs a break from you, and I'm used to this; so you play the mistaken, and I'll play the victim in our screenplay of desire.'_ – Underoath, "Young And Aspiring"

**H**e was sitting slouched on his couch, his knees spread apart and his head leaned back in a relaxed position. In his left hand was a beer, and in his right was a joint. Speed. He had been feeling so slow and depressed lately that he couldn't wait to feel energetic again, and if it meant creating the feeling artificially, then so be it.

Smiling to himself, he leaned forward and took a drag. The stuff smelled like bleach and it drove him crazy, but the effects made up for it. Again and again he pulled the drug in, his mind slowly ticking faster and his heartbeat increasing, until he finished the joint and he had sprung to his feet to use this new, excess energy.

He didn't even remember where he got the drugs. He couldn't quite imagine himself as the type of person to just go out into a dark alley and meet up with someone he didn't even know existed, and pay too much for a temporary relief. But that didn't matter anymore. Now, he was happy and he had energy and he was _smiling_ again, so why should it matter, anyway?

He jogged into the kitchen and went to the kitchen sink, and frowned. It was rusty and dirty; hadn't he cleaned it lately? Surely, he wouldn't let his sink get this filthy!

He turned on the tap, hoping to wash away the grime and rust. It worked; all the dirt eased from the metal and slipped down the drain, leaving the sink sparkling clean and free of grime. He grinned to himself, his fingers tapping on the counter surface, and went to turn off the tap. The water didn't stop coming, however. He panicked and twisted the knob over and over again, and it continued to spin in a mocking rotation, but the water kept guzzling out of the tap, filling his sink, which was suddenly clogged with all of the dirt and filth that he had tried washing down, and the water continued to rise.

"Damn it!" he cursed loudly. The water slipped over the edges of the sink and glided along the counter, falling off the edge and landing on the tiled floor with an echoing splash. His breathing grew rapid when he blinked and the water was suddenly three inches high, all around the apartment.

He realized that every time he blinked, the water rose several inches. He was already knee deep in the icy liquid, shivering, and panicking. None of the water was escaping from under his apartment door, either—it seemed determined to stay inside and continue to rise…to drown him…

It was up to his hips now. His furniture floated all around him, and with his newfound energy he found himself wading through the water and trying to catch everything that wasn't attached to the floor.

All of a sudden the ceiling broke and caved in, planks of wood and pieces of debris falling on top of him, pushing him beneath the water's surface. He struggled to get back up for air, but he couldn't push a heavy block of wood off of him. In seconds his lungs were screaming for air and his vision began to disappear, so in a desperate attempt to live he breathed in, and miraculously, oxygen passed through his nose and into his lungs—not water. He gulped for air again and he continued to breathe normally, the water rising up to the roof and the block of wood still pinning him down…

His eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath.

* * *

He should have known Warrick better. Should have been a better friend, more supportive when things went downhill with Tina and when he was under investigation for Gedda's death. They had just been _friends_, but they should have been _closer_ friends. Not best friends like Nick was, but close ones. Maybe then Greg wouldn't feel so guilty, now that Warrick was gone forever.

Sighing, he leaned his weight on his elbows, which were resting on his knees as he sat on the bench in front of his locker, and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. Ecklie had him running around like hell on cases, and he was pulling more doubles than singles. He hadn't even had a chance to process the blood from Warrick's car, and they had collected it a week ago. Malcolm hadn't managed to sneak onto a computer and run the palm print through AFIS, either, since he was working just as often as Greg was.

It was ridiculous. They had something, possibly the killer's print, and yet they couldn't process the stuff. Greg wanted to hit something, and when he glanced up and saw his locker standing innocently and welcoming in front of him, he instantly stood up and punched it. It helped a little, but not much. He was still aggravated and shattered.

Somebody walking down the hall stared at him quizzically, but he ignored them. He didn't know her name, which meant he didn't know her, which meant he would probably never interact with her, so he really didn't give a damn if she saw him losing it on his locker door.

He was thankful for being able to go home, though, even though he still wanted to run into the DNA lab and chuck the lab tech into the hallway so he could run the blood. He needed sleep, desperately. His eyes itched and he had a headache the size of a sledgehammer pounding away at his skull. Nothing sounded better than going to his apartment and diving under the covers to pass out.

Shaking his head, he opened his locker, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on. He was about to reach for his keys when he heard footsteps stop in the doorway.

Turning his head to see who it was, he mentally groaned and scowled.

"Sanders," Ecklie said.

He sighed quietly. "Yes, Ecklie?"

"You're working graveyard tonight."

Greg's jaw dropped. "What? Are you joking? I just finished a double!"

Ecklie shrugged and almost looked like he was sympathetic, but Greg didn't buy it. "They're backed up tonight, and Grissom asked for somebody to help."

"Can't anybody… What about Malcolm? Or Terri or Jacob?"

Shaking his head, Ecklie explained, "They're all on cases." And with that, he left.

Grumbling, Greg roughly threw his jacket back into his locker, not bothering to hang it on the hook, and slammed it shut. The sound echoed throughout the room beautifully, so he opened it and slammed it again, just for kicks. It helped mildly to calm him down.

He hadn't pulled a triple in a _long_ time. And he had hoped he would never have to again.

But luck hadn't been on his side for a while now, so why grant him a favour tonight?

Sighing in defeat, Greg exited the locker room and trudged down to Grissom's office. Not to his surprise, his ex boss was currently sitting at his desk, filling out paperwork. Greg knocked lightly on the door. Grissom's muffled voice told him to enter, so he slowly turned the knob and stepped inside. Grissom looked up and met his gaze.

Boy, was this awkward, at least for Greg.

Greg cleared his throat and stared at one of Grissom's bug encyclopaedias. "So," he said, uncomfortable. "I'm helping you guys out tonight?"

"I didn't know it was going to be you," Grissom said lightly. Greg switched his attention to him. "I never specified anyone."

"Is it…a problem?" Greg's heart sank. Of _course_ he wasn't going to be welcome—he'd left the team behind, when they were already floundering around in deep waters, to fix his own problems, and he hadn't even accomplished _that_. Why had he expected Grissom to just accept him back on the team, even if was only for that night?

His chest aching and trills of self-loathing tingling down his arms and to his fingertips, Greg waited silently for Grissom to speak.

"No, it isn't," his temporary supervisor eventually said.

Greg nodded and stared at the floor. "Right," he said to himself. "Um…see you in the break room for assignments?"

Grissom nodded, still watching him carefully. Greg's cheeks flushed under the scrutiny and he felt his palms begin to sweat. Christ, where had his confidence gone?

He left the office without another word, quickly making his way to the break room. Maybe he could get there soon enough to make a batch of his coffee to mellow out his emotions. The guilt and hatred he felt towards himself was nearly overwhelming, and he didn't want it to show.

Entering the break room and finding it empty, he quickly walked over to the TV and dragged it forward, grabbing his bag of Blue Hawaiian that was hidden behind it, and then pushed it back into place.

"So that's where it's been," an amused voice sounded from the doorway. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and his surprise must have been evident because Catherine stepped inside and grabbed the bag from his hands with a grin. She walked over to the coffee machine and got it going, and then turned around so she was leaning against the counter and facing him. "You won't mind sharing, will you?"

He shook his head. Realizing he was still standing in the middle of the break room like a fool, he quickly walked over to the table and took a seat.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Catherine continued. Greg stared at her, biting his lower lip. She looked tired, defeated, but a small smile was still present on her face.

"We passed each other the other day in the hallway, remember?" He wondered if that sounded weird to her, like he remembered every single thing they did together. It wasn't like that—he simply cherished every moment of human interaction he got. Talking to people, or somebody smiling at him, always lifted his spirits, if only temporarily.

She chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, but that doesn't really count." She paused for a second, eying him quizzically. "Actually, I've seen you wandering the halls during swing shift for several days now; how many doubles are you pulling?"

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Too many."

She smiled again and a comfortable silence fell over them. Greg realized that ever since she started talking to him, his feelings from his meeting with Grissom had disappeared. Maybe it was her warm smile, or the fact that she wasn't screaming at him and staring at him hatefully, but she made him feel welcome and warm; and he cherished the feeling, because he knew that the second Nick showed up, it would disappear.

He decided to jump off the edge and take chance at a new conversation, because really, if he screwed up now, it wouldn't make too much of a difference; how often would he be asked to cover night shift?

"How're you holding up?" he asked quietly, watching her.

Her eyes dimmed and a small frown marred her features. The coffee was ready, so she busied herself with pouring them both cups as she answered.

"I'm all right," she said slowly, carefully. Greg studied her body language. She was tense and guarded. "It's getting a bit better, though." She turned around to face him again, and stared into his eyes. "I think it's finally starting to sink in that he's…gone."

He admired her strength. He was pathetic next to her, and he was positive he wasn't the only one who knew that.

"Yeah, I get what you mean," he said quietly.

Her stare suddenly hardened, as did his insides. "Really, Greg? Because I was under the impression that running from your problems helped you."

He didn't know how to answer that. He was too stunned. Instead, he looked away. He heard her sigh and take a sip from her coffee. He realized that his was currently sitting on the counter, beside her, but he sure as hell wasn't about to go get it.

Why had he opened his mouth and started this conversation? She had been content, if not cheerful, towards him, and it could have stayed that way. But now she obviously didn't want to have anything to do with him, and he was feeling far from welcome.

But this was what he had expected, wasn't it? The hostility, the blame, the anger. He shouldn't have been surprised by her words; he deserved it. He wanted to tell her that she didn't fully understand, that there was more to it than simply running away out of fear, or cowardice, or whatever; but he didn't know how, and every time he tried to form the words his tongue got stuck behind his teeth and his head spun.

He could only imagine how Nick would react to working with him again. He almost whimpered at the thought. Nick was going to be so mad…

Neither of them spoke again, or made eye contact. Several minutes later Grissom and Nick entered the break room. Greg wearily glanced up in time to see Nick's shocked and slightly narrowed eyes, before he stared back down at the table. Grissom cleared his throat.

"All right, here's what happening tonight. We have double homicide—Nick, you and Catherine and me will take that, and Greg, you have a B and E and murder in Henderson. I'll send someone over to help you when we're done with our scene."

Greg took his slip of paper and quickly exited the room, thankful that he wouldn't have to work with them. He didn't think he could handle it.

After grabbing his keys and kit, he made his way towards the parking lot, passing Nick and Catherine on his way. He kept his head low and his eyes on the ground in front of him. The back of his neck prickled until he rounded the corner and he was a sufficient distance away from them.

While driving to the scene he found his eyes closing several times and had to remind himself that if he crashed, then real hell would break loose, and his dignity would forever walk out the door.

He couldn't stop thinking about Nick's expression upon seeing that he was working night shift. Running a shaking hand through his hair, Greg sighed and leaned his elbow against the windowsill of his Denali. Nick hated him. It was pure and simple, and the worst part about it was that Greg had brought this upon himself. He had left Nick to deal with his best friend's death alone, when he could have stayed and helped him through it.

But that would have destroyed Greg, and he knew it. Helping Nick grieve would have brought them closer together (or he liked to think, anyway), and he would have gotten his hopes up again, only to be brought back down in a crash; and he didn't know how he would have dealt with that again.

So really, which option was better? He had taken the selfish way out, yes, but he was honestly scared of breaking. Besides, Nick didn't look that bad; he was dealing okay. At least, Greg hoped so.

He pulled up at the scene and grabbed his kit, realizing it was chilly outside and he had forgotten to bring his jacket. Was he really that preoccupied? He knew he couldn't screw this up.

Heading towards the officer standing inside the taped off area, he asked, "What've we got?"

"Sanders?" the officer asked. Greg vaguely recognized him. "You back on night shift now?"

Awkward didn't describe it.

Coughing into his hand, Greg responded quietly, "Uh, no, just for tonight."

The other man grunted and shrugged. "Forced entry through the back door. The living room is pretty messed up, the person was looking for something. The victim is upstairs in her bedroom. She's under the bed, we almost didn't see her."

"Do we know if anything was taken?"

"No idea."

"All right, thanks," he sighed, and made him way to the back of the house to process the back door.

After dusting for prints and lifting a couple of partials, he entered the house and went into the living room. To put it simply, _everything_ was _everywhere_. The furniture was overturned, papers were scattered, the couch cushions were shredded to pieces and stuffing was strewn all over the floor, and the television set was on the ground, shattered.

He spent two hours in the living room, dusting for prints and taking photos of everything. He was glad that the rest of the house was untouched; it would have taken him forever to go through every room like this.

After checking that all the rooms downstairs were indeed fine, he made his way upstairs and into the victim's bedroom. He didn't blame the officers for not seeing the body at first—the bed covers were pulled down, blocking her from view. The smell gave it away, though. Crouching down, he lifted the bed sheet and guided his flashlight over her body. She had been shot somewhere in the back of the head, and there was a large blood pool beneath her, indicating that she hadn't been moved. He guessed that she had been hiding from the noises downstairs, and the suspect had come upstairs and shot her.

But if she had been silent and in hiding, how did the person know she was there?

Shaking his head, Greg took some photos before going downstairs to ask an officer for some help in moving the bed. After that was done, he began processing the body. He found a dark blond hair on her neck and bagged it. The suspect had been touching her at some point.

"Boyfriend, maybe?" he muttered to himself. Her left hand held no ring, which meant she wasn't married. However, her hiding under her bed made no sense if she knew who was in her house.

He was about to take her fingernail scraping when a noise from behind him caught his attention. His heart pounding in surprise, he turned around to see what was behind him. It was a closet, which was closed. His imagination showed him clips of the suspect running out and attacking him, knife in his hand, and it did nothing to calm his nerves. He brought his flashlight in front of him, though it didn't do much good since the closet door was wooden.

Breathing through his mouth, he slowly rose to his feet and walked towards the closet. A part of him desperately wished there was just a dog or cat in there, maybe a mouse.

He pursed his lips and reached out for the doorknob, but hesitated, his anxiety taking control of his limbs. He flexed his fingers to keep the blood flowing and grabbed hold of the doorknob, but just as he was about to twist it the door swung open and clipped him in the shoulder, sending him backwards several steps with a yelp of surprise and pain. His left hand grabbed at his shoulder, and he didn't even have time to look up before something heavy collided with him and he fell to the ground, winded. A black figure was kneeling above him, wearing dark clothing and a ski mask to cover his identity. Greg's breathing increased and he went into panic mode.

He dropped his flashlight and tried throwing some punches, but the man, who was much larger than Greg, simply grabbed his wrists and twisted sharply. Greg cried out in agony as he felt his right wrist snap, the fiery pain coursing through his arm, not letting up, as his attacker continued to grasp his wrist tightly, grating the broken bones together. He threw out his left arm to try to push the man off of him and bucked his hips, the pain and panic overwhelming him.

The man grabbed his left wrist and pinned it under his knee, the pressure enough to send Greg slightly onto his left side to try to relieve the pain, but the attacker punched him in the face. Stunned, Greg lay still for a moment, forgetting to breathe, as dark memories assaulted his mind…hooded figures surrounding him, taunting him, attacking him…

The man above him twisted his right wrist again and he heard another snap, and another wave of agony shot through his arm. His gaze rested on the man's masked face—_I can't see his face_. He couldn't see any of _their_ faces, either!

_Oh, my God_, he whimpered in his mind. _Please, not again, not again not again not again not again_—

Where were the police?! Did they not hear what was happening?!

The man pinned Greg right wrist beneath his other knee, sending the smaller man into convulsions of pain as his broken bones grinded against one another. He somehow knew that the man was sneering as he shifted all his weight onto that wrist, and Greg felt something tear, and warm liquid pooled under his hand. He glanced down with wild eyes and was horrified to see that a bone was poking through his skin.

He tried yelling for help, but the assailant clamped his hand down over his mouth. Greg breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes wide in fear and pain. He noticed his entire body was trembling.

"Don't scream," the man whispered into his ear. His voice was gruff and low, and it sent chills of fear down Greg's spine.

He slowly got off of Greg, once more shifting all of his weight onto Greg's right wrist, causing him to grit his teeth and bite his tongue until a metallic taste exploded in his mouth.

The attacker was now kneeling beside him, his hand still clamped over Greg's mouth. Greg thanked God that his wrist was free of the terrible pressure. His arm was growing numb now; he couldn't move it. It felt like lead.

He thought it was over. He began to breathe easier, the moonlight shining through the window somehow calming.

And then the cold metal barrel of a gun pressed into his temple, and he heard a click.

"Don't scream," the man whispered again, and the world began to spin.

-8-

Objects/places meanings in dreams, according to www(dot)dreammoods(dot)com.

**Water:** To dream that water is rising up in your house, signifies your struggles and overwhelming emotions.

**Breathing:** To dream that you are breathing underwater, represents a retreat back into the womb. You want to return to a state where you were dependent and free from responsibilities. Perhaps you are feeling helpless, unable to fulfill your own needs and caring for yourself. Alternatively, you may be submerged in your emotions. To dream that you are breathing rapidly indicates that you are experiencing some anxiety, tension, or fear in your waking life.

**Speed:** To dream that you are taking speed the drug, indicates that you are putting yourself in a dangerous situation, particularly if you do not use speed in your waking life.

**Kitchen:** To see a kitchen in your dream, signifies your need for warmth and spiritual nourishment. Alternatively, the kitchen also represents a transformation.

**Sink:** To see a sink in your dream represents your feelings and how you control your emotions. You may need to cleanse yourself of past feelings and start fresh.


	7. Make It Out Alive

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title from song quoted below. This chapter does deal with some sexual assault, but it is not graphic and not severe. Happy reading! :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter six:  
_Make It Out Alive

* * *

'_Here is where we both go wrong; tonight's your last chance to do exactly what you want to; and this could be my night—this is what makes me feel alive, makes you feel alive; so sign me up and toss this key, 'cause now we're living in the moment, and we both ignore the truth; it's all over, it's all over; your lungs have failed and they both stopped breathing; my heart is dead and it's way past beating; something has gone terribly wrong; I'm scared, your scared, we're scared of this; I never told you but it's all in your goodbyes; don't shake, I hate to see you tremble; trembling, you've lost your touch, haven't you? So addictive.' _– Underoath, "A Boy Brushed in Red…Living in Black And White"

* * *

**H**e couldn't see straight. The room was fuzzy and the moonlight blended in with the shadows, creating a grey smog throughout his mind, and all he felt was his shattered wrist, bruised cheek, and the terrifyingly real gun pressed against his temple. This guy was ready to shoot. Greg could_ die_.

Trembling violently, he gritted his teeth to try to take the edge off the situation. It didn't work. All he did was taste blood from his wounded tongue, and it made him think about the crimson liquid dripping from the torn skin on his wrist, and the mess it would make if he were shot in the head. He knew that pieces of his skull, blood, and fragments of his brain would be everywhere on the carpet… He gagged in the back of his throat.

For some reason, he wondered how close he was to the dead woman. Was his blood pool mingling with hers? Were they going to die in the same room? He wondered if her spirit was still here, watching. What was she thinking?

His delirious train of thought was cut short when the man above him took his hand off of his mouth. Greg was about to yell for help when he remembered his attacker's words and the cocked gun aimed at his head.

He was stunned when the man's hand travelled down his jaw and around his neck. At first he thought he was going to strangle him, but the man's fingers were light over his skin, delicate. Greg lay as still as stone, his eyes wide and unbelieving, as his attacker's hand ran down his chest slowly, and when he reached the hem of Greg's shirt his fingers slipped under it.

Disgust and fear coiled in Greg's stomach and he tried to squirm away, but the man straddled his hips and held him in place with his knees. Greg whimpered as he continued to caress his skin, and he swore he heard the man moan quietly.

This was an all new type of fear. His breathing was rapid and shallow and his heartbeat erratic, and his shaking intensified. He hated himself for not being able to do anything but let his attacker do this to him. He closed his eyes tightly and bit his bottom lip when the man pulled Greg's shirt up so that his stomach and chest were exposed.

The man chuckled and Greg felt him shift his weight so he was resting further down Greg's legs. The gun was still pressed hard into his skin, so he dared not move. He did, however, let out a choked sob when he felt the man's hand tug on his belt and pull it out from the loops; and he stopped breathing completely when his hands were pinned above his head and tied together, his right wrist screaming from the fierce agony. But he had other things to worry about now.

_Where are the police?_ he kept asking himself. _We must have made some kind of noise, why haven't they come to rescue me?_

Was this some type of punishment for loving Nick? Was this payback, though Nick didn't even know about it? He opened his eyes again, his vision still obscured by the tears that were constantly slipping down his temples into his hair.

Did he deserve this?

The man was trying to get his button undone; he seemed to be having some trouble with only one hand, but he was also unwilling to take the gun away from Greg's head. Greg's eyes slowly rolled downward until he was watching the masked man's lips. He was chewing on the bottom one and licking it in anticipation. Nausea caused bile to rise into Greg's throat, but he swallowed and bit his lip again, hard. Why wouldn't this end? The man was taking his time, and it made his head swim.

The button was undone, and a second later so was his zipper. His teeth pierced his lip and more blood pooled in his mouth. A ragged sob tore through his throat.

"Please," he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut again. "Please, d-don't do this…"

His attacker's fingers were gripping his jeans, ready to pull them down. Greg decided that now was the time to beg; he had finally broken out of his state of shock and denial. This was _really happening_. He _wasn't dreaming_.

He heard the man chuckle and lean towards his ear. Shuddering, Greg tilted his face away, hating the way his body was covered by his attacker's.

"Just sit tight," the man whispered huskily into his ear. "Nobody knows what's happening; no one's coming up here to save you. Try to enjoy it as much as I will."

He could hear the smirk in the man's voice, and he swore he was close to having a seizure, he was shaking so badly. The man slowly slid back down his body, his hand tracing his navel before dipping below the waistband of his boxers.

Greg cried out in despair and tried curling in on himself, but the gun bit into his scalp every time he attempted to shield himself. He tried to drift away, to make his mind wander to some place else, so he didn't have to feel this, didn't have to know what was happening…

And then his cell phone rang.

It shocked him so much that at first he thought he had successfully protected his mind from understanding the current situation; but his attacker stopped too, and the phone rang a second time. His attacker cursed and reached down into the pockets of Greg's jeans, producing the cell phone.

"Answer it," he hissed, flipping the phone open and holding it to Greg's ear. "They'll know something's wrong if you don't. And don't you dare tell them what's happening, or I swear to God I will shoot you!"

Nodding hurriedly, Greg waited for the man to press Talk before rasping out, "Hello?"

"_Hey, Greg_." Oh, God, it was Nick. "_I'm coming to help you out, our scene turned out to be pretty simple, not too messy. I'm almost there, just give me a couple of minutes_." He was silent for a moment, where Greg let out another quiet sob. "_Greg?_"

"Y-Yeah?" He felt the man's eyes roaming over his body and the disgust and self-loathing nearly swallowed him alive.

There was a brief moment of silence before Nick said, "_Greg, is something wrong?_"

The man's knee slid in between his thighs.

"No," he whimpered. "N-No, every…everything's f-fine…"

"_Doesn't sound fine. What's happening?_"

He felt teeth graze his earlobe and he choked.

"Oh, my God…" he groaned brokenly.

"_Greg?!_"

The man began kissing his neck and biting at the spot where his pulse thumped erratically.

"Nick, please help m—!"

He didn't even register his attacker ending the call; all he knew what that the gun had suddenly crashed into his left eye, and he screamed in pain, while the man hissed words into his ear and gripped his hip…

"What did I tell you, you little shit!"

The man hit him with the gun again, this time in the temple, and black spots blurred his vision. Greg knew this was it. He was going to die. He was going to be raped, and then he was going to die.

But today, he didn't want to die. Because he knew that Nick was going to come save him.

Something snapped within him and he yelled in fury, bringing his elbows together and hitting the man in the shoulder with them. Truthfully he'd been aiming for the head, but he couldn't see right so everything looked like the same body part.

His attacker punched him in the chest and pain assaulted his senses. The gun was pressed under his jaw.

"Make one more move," the man hissed dangerously, "and I will blow your brains out, do you understand me? Now, what did the person say?!"

He thought fast through the haze of terror and pain.

"N-Nothing," he stuttered weakly. "He—He's going to the l-lab, w-wanted to know if—if I needed any help…"

The man seemed to consider it for a second. "So he's not coming?"

Greg shook his head, more tears staining his cheeks.

He saw the man smirk again and place his free hand on his thigh. "Let's have some fun then, shall we?"

Greg was positive he was going to throw up. Nick was coming, but he would be too late…

Just as the man grabbed his boxers, Greg heard the front door crash open and footsteps enter the house.

"Greg?!" Nick's frantic voice echoed up the stairs.

The man's eyes widened in fury and surprise.

"_Nick!_" he yelled though his sore throat. "_Nick!_"

The man pistol whipped him again, swearing colourfully. Greg, through his slowly darkening world, vaguely heard a pair of footsteps coming up the stairs.

"You son a fucking bitch!" the man screamed. "You _fuck_! You told me nobody was _coming!_"

He felt the man tighten his hold on the trigger. He closed his eyes, prepared himself for the end…

A deafening bang ricocheted off the walls, and Greg was sure that he was dead. He even tasted the blood in his mouth. Except, he was still breathing. And the man's weight had disappeared from on top of him.

He numbly opened his eyes and was stunned to see his attacker's blurry form slumped over to the side. He heard Nick fall to his knees beside him.

"Jesus! _Greg!_" Nick's frantic voice pierced through his hazy mind and he allowed his gaze to slowly switch to the Texan.

"N-Nick…"

"Fuck…_fuck_, what did he _do_ to you?!" Nick grabbed his shirt and Greg flinched, feeling his attacker's hands, not Nick's… "No, Greg, calm down, it's okay, I'm…" He heard Nick inhale shakily. "I'm not gonna hurt you, all right? I'm just… I'm gonna put your clothes back on…"

In his delirious state of mind, Greg chuckled, knowing how humiliating this was. Here he was, a grown man, and he had been sexually assaulted. And now here was Nick, the man he was in _love_ with—a _man_, too, why had he never thought about that?—trying to put his clothes back on. He thanked God he at least had his boxers on.

After Nick pulled his jeans back up, he turned his attention to Greg's wrists. He started to untie them, and Greg whimpered in agony as his shattered wrist was jostled.

"What… Oh, Christ," Nick murmured. "Hang on, Greg, okay? I'm gonna go get some scissors and…and get one of the officers to call the paramedics…"

Greg's eyes widened.

"No," he whispered. He squinted slightly so he could see Nick clearer. "Please, don't… I don't… I don't need… _Please,_ Nicky…"

"Greg." Nick's voice was thick with emotion, though Greg couldn't figure out why. Nick_ hated_ him. Why would he care about this? "You _need_ medical attention immediately. You… He…"

Nick hurriedly got to his feet and rushed out of the room. And Greg crumpled, his sanity finally snapping, drawing into himself. He curled into a tight ball and bit into his already bleeding lip, relishing the pain it provided, to get his mind off the fact that Nick couldn't bear to look at him, that he was so pathetic and weak and that he _deserved this_—

He heard footsteps again, but now they were just a distant vibration, in a different world. Was he dreaming? If he was, then why did it still hurt so much? He was still trembling.

Nick dropped down beside him again and touched his shoulder. Greg curled into himself even more.

"It's gonna be okay, G," Nick whispered. Greg absently heard the emotion in his voice, though he couldn't quite identify it. He hoped to God it wasn't disgust; he already hated himself enough, he didn't want Nick to, as well. "It's gonna be okay, I—I promise. The ambulance is on its way, and Grissom and Catherine have been notified…"

Greg sobbed again. _Please, no_. He didn't want Grissom or Catherine to know about this. If Nick already thought he was weak, then they would, too… He didn't think he could handle their disgusted stares. Would they assume he was gay from this? Would they hate him for it? He felt a part of him shatter. Maybe it was his heart. Or his sanity. He didn't know. All he knew was that something disappeared, vanished, from his insides.

Slowly, the world darkened and went silent.

* * *

As his consciousness gradually leaked back into his body, the first thing he noticed was silence.

He was in a hospital. He would recognize that smell anywhere. The overly-clean, sterile scent that invaded his senses… Unpleasant and unwelcome, to say the least. He tried to groan in frustration, but nothing came out; his throat was too dry. His body began to catch up to him, and he felt a throbbing pain in his right wrist, while his headache worsened.

What the hell had happened to him?

"Nick…"

That was Catherine's voice. He was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat, but he couldn't be sure. He wondered if she noticed, too.

_Oh, shit_. Nick was there. Why was Nick there? They weren't friends anymore…

"No, Cath." Nick almost sounded choked up. Greg wouldn't let himself believe it. "I'm not… I'm not leaving him…"

"Nick, he probably won't be awake for a while," he heard Catherine say softly. "Go home, eat something, get some rest. You look like you need it."

Greg didn't want to open his eyes, because then this might all be a dream and he was actually alone in his hospital room, injured (though he didn't know how), and they were simply a figment of his imagination. So, deciding he rather liked this dream, he kept his eyes closed and listened.

"I just can't… I can't believe it happened," Nick continued. His accent was more pronounced than usual. "He was just working with us for the night. Two of us could've handled that homicide case, couldn't we? And one of us would have gone to the single homicide. Greg wasn't needed at all. Oh my God, what if I hadn't called?!"

Greg inwardly smiled wryly.

"We had no way of knowing this would happen," Catherine reasoned. "And besides, it would be one of us lying in the hospital bed, not Greg. And then our team would be down another person."

Bile rose into Greg's throat. Was he really that dispensable to her? Thinking back on how their conversation had gone earlier…yeah, he probably was.

"Are you kidding me, Catherine?! As if you're thinking about that! This is Greg, man, he basically _is_ part of the team!"

Greg's eyes snapped open, and his shocked gaze met Nick's. Time seemed to stop, if only for a second. He saw the anger and worry in the Nick's chocolate brown eyes, how pale his skin was, the dark bags under his eyes.

Knowing how he felt at the moment, he didn't even want to think about what Nick saw, staring into his eyes.

Catherine's voice shattered the moment. Greg inhaled shakily and turned his attention towards her.

"You're awake!" she exclaimed with a warm smile. He would have felt wanted by it, had he not heard what she'd just said. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't want to answer her. He didn't want her sitting beside him, watching him. He didn't want her anywhere _near_ him.

So, instead of answering, he turned his head so he was facing the ceiling with pursed lips and a hard gaze. He heard her sigh, but couldn't bring himself to care.

"How long have you been awake?" Nick asked quietly.

He shrugged with his left shoulder, not wanting to jostle his aching right wrist. At least he wasn't lying; he technically didn't know how long he'd been up.

"Okay, well, get better," Catherine said, and touched his arm and got up and left.

While Greg was happy that she was gone, it also meant that he and Nick were now alone in a room. It was almost the opposite of the day two years ago, when Greg came to visit Nick…only Nick wasn't drowning in confusion and desperation, or searching for the right words to say. And Greg hadn't just been pulled out of a coffin with fire ants.

"What…" He coughed, his dry throat stinging. "What h—"

_Jesus_, he scolded himself. _You can't even talk. What's wrong with you?_

"Here, drink some water," Nick offered quickly, holding up a glass towards him. Greg made to grab it, but his left arm would barely move, so he only ended up staring into Nick's eyes helplessly. Not something he was fond of doing. Nick gave him a small smile before holding the glass closer to him, and thank God he was already in a semi-sitting position, because having Nick help him up wouldn't have been pretty. He gladly took a sip through the straw and sighed as the heavenly cool liquid coated his throat.

"Thanks," he whispered, and Nick nodded. "What happened?"

A pained look cross Nick's face. He averted his gaze, choosing instead to stare at his hands in his lap. Greg wondered if he should have just kept his mouth shut.

"You, uh…were attacked at a crime scene."

His eyebrows furrowing in confusion, Greg said, "But I don't work nights anymore…right?"

He heard Nick snort quietly. "No, you don't, but you were tonight. You were upstairs processing, when the…suspect attacked you."

"And I didn't hear him?" he asked incredulously. Was he really that idiotic and useless?

Nick shrugged and met his gaze again. "Nobody knows what happened except for you."

"Not right now, I don't."

Nick smiled sadly. "Anyway, your wrist was badly broken, you underwent surgery to fix it. You have a concussion, too, which probably explains the memory loss."

"How'd I get a concussion?"

Nick swallowed before answering, "Pistol whipped a few times. In the temple and eye."

Oh, there it was—a spark of memory. Greg lost himself in it…the feel of a gun pressed against his temple, the burning, agonizing pain in his wrist, the man's hand touching his stomach…

"No…" he whispered, his eyes widening in fear. He remembered it, now. "Oh, my God, no…"

He turned onto his side, away from Nick, and curled into himself. He remembered his attacker's hand caressing his neck, his jaw, his chest, travelling down his stomach, slipping under his waistband…

He was going to be sick.

"Nick," he barely rasped out. "Nick, I… I'm gonna…"

In seconds Nick was in front of him with a tray, and he instantly leaned over it and threw up. He pressed his face into his pillow, hot tears scorching his cheeks and nose. He remembered the man's breath in his ear, his teeth grazing his skin, his lips attacking his neck… He couldn't stop _remembering_—

He distantly heard his name being yelled, somebody trying to reach out to him, but he was too far gone in the memory, feeling the hand all over him, experiencing the disgust and fear and weakness again, hearing the man's rough and excited voice, feeling the cold metal's pressure against the side of his head, wanting it to just end, for the trigger to just be _pulled already_ so he could be put out of his _misery_…

A hand grabbed his arm and his mind spun out of control.

* * *

He was dreaming; it was the only plausible explanation for this. Greg opened his front door and there stood Nick, smiling at him. He smiled back and invited him in, and they sat down on the couch. He noticed how close Nick was sitting, their knees and shoulders touching.

He decided he liked this dream, so he just went with the flow of it.

He didn't know how or when, but they were suddenly kissing, with Greg lying on his back and Nick on top of him. He knew that Nick's right hand was lightly holding the back of his neck and his left was gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks, but he didn't care about that—what bothered him was that he couldn't _feel_ it, he just _knew_ what was happening.

Nick pulled away and sat up, Greg following his lead, so that they were staring at each other, breathing heavily. Nick looked away; he wasn't smiling anymore.

"We can't do this, Greg," he said. "I can't do this."

Panic settled in Greg's mind and he grasped desperately for anything to help him out. "But… Why did…?"

Staring into his eyes once again, Nick replied, "It was what you wanted."

"But not what you wanted." It didn't even come out as a question; Greg couldn't find the strength anymore. He was drained. He couldn't even have Nick in his dreams.

Nick didn't answer, simply smiled sadly and shook his head, before standing up.

"But we could be something, Nick," Greg whispered, still seated on the couch. "I swear, I'll do anything to make you happy. Anything you want."

Nick shrugged and kept walking towards the door. "I can't force myself to love you, Greg. I'm sorry."

And he left.

* * *

Slowly opening his eyes, Greg's stomach sank with the realization that he was still in the hospital, and everything had indeed happened. He remembered everything, once more—the gun, the hand all over him… The nausea instantly replaced the sadness that his dream had caused, and he curled up into a ball on his side again.

Nick wasn't there anymore; he was alone in his room. He sighed in relief. He didn't think he could deal seeing anybody yet. He wondered if he would ever be comfortable with human touch again; he hadn't technically been raped, after all, only assaulted. But that didn't stop the memories from being vivid and horrible. Closing his eyes, he shuddered. No, he doubted he would want someone touching him again for a while.

And Nick… Being attacked had made him realize that he was in love with another man. Why had that never sent warning signals through his head before? Of course Nick wasn't going to love him—he was straight. And Greg knew that this wasn't going to happen like the stories, where Nick would suddenly exclaim that he had undying feelings for Greg as well and had just made up all those girlfriends to keep his reputation, or he only just realized that he wasn't straight. He snorted lightly to himself. Yeah, right.

He looked down at his right wrist. It was bandaged and a cast was around it. It didn't hurt right now, and when he thought about it, neither did his head. The doctors had probably pumped him full of pain medication. Whatever. At least he could think straight now without being sidetracked by the pounding sledgehammer behind his eyes.

Fear and shame pooled in his stomach. Everybody knew about what had happened to him. _Oh, God_, he moaned. They were probably so disappointed in him, so embarrassed to know him… They would never accept him or look at him again. Especially Nick, who had seen the state he was in back at the crime scene… Tears welled in his eyes and he bit his lip, which was sore.

He had lost them for good, now. He was weak, pathetic; and they knew it, too.

-9-


	8. Insatiable Taste

**Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.  
Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.  
**Author's Note:** Chapter title from song quoted below. Mostly interaction with the others in this chapter, and some happiness near the end. It's about time, I think, especially since this chapter didn't come out as I'd planned. Happy reading! Thanks to those who have reviewed :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter seven:  
_Insatiable Taste

* * *

'_And it's not too late to come clean, get it off your chest; so steady your hand before your face and concentrate; there's got to be some stable ground left to walk on; are you asleep or just alone? Clear this room from your lungs; pull yourself together, man; on your back, you're sleeping in a bed of shame; let the light breathe some new life into this room; it's what keeps you coming back; you're coming unglued; time is shorter than you know; it's all worth reaching for, the hand to pull you out; wake up, wake up, wake up, and step outside your box.'_ – Underoath, "In Regards to Myself"

* * *

**G**rissom came to see him once, in the hospital. Nick and Catherine didn't come back. He wasn't severely injured, though, so he didn't really expect them to visit him often. He wasn't exactly on his death bed. But Grissom's visit was awkward, to say the least, with his ex supervisor once again looking down at him on a hospital bed, only this time Greg hadn't been beaten to a pulp and accidentally killed a guy.

"The suspect's been arrested and taken care of. Nick shot him in the hip and he passed out. The officers have been reprimanded severely," he said in a toneless voice.

Greg wondered how Grissom felt, with another CSI having been attacked at a supposedly cleared scene. He didn't ask.

"It wasn't just their fault," he said quietly. "I should have been paying more attention."

Grissom's eyes hardened slightly. "You were there to process the scene only, Greg. It was their job to make sure nobody else was in that house."

Not much more was said. Grissom asked if his parents had been notified, to which Greg nodded, even though it was a lie, and Grissom then left with a small nod.

And now here he was, sitting at home on his couch watching daytime television, which sucked. He glanced down at his wrist. It didn't hurt that much anymore, thankfully, but he would have to wear the cast for a while, meaning he was on paperwork duty for a couple of weeks. Which sounded like fun.

His phone rang, breaking through his train of thought and startling him. He quickly stood up and grabbed it.

"Hello?"

"_Greg?_"

His heart stopped. This person _was not_ calling him, not after so long—

"Sara?!" he exclaimed, falling back onto the couch.

"_Yes, it's me_." She wasn't smiling; he could hear it in her voice, and he wondered if something was wrong. "_How are you?_"

"Oh… Um, not too bad, I guess. You? How's San Francisco?"

She paused for a moment. "_It wasn't too bad_."

"'Wasn't'?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. "You moved again?"

"_Yeah, kind of. I'm coming back_."

His eyes widened and a large smile crossed his face. "What? Really? That… That's great, Sara!"

She was smiling now. "_Yeah, I just wish it was under better circumstances_."

"Oh," he said, his grin fading.

"_I'm coming back since…Warrick, well, you know…_"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "When are you coming?"

"_I'm catching the flight today_._ Grissom said you didn't know yet, so I figured I'd call you_."

Of course he was the last one to know. He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice as he said, "Right. Thanks."

"_Is something wrong?_"

Oh, God, he wanted to break down and tell her everything that had happened since she left. He wanted to spill his heart and thoughts out, burden her with all of his problems so he didn't have to carry them alone.

"No, not really."

There was another pause. "_Why don't you sound sleepy? Didn't I wake you up? This is when you usually sleep_."

Actually, he wanted to say, this is when I usually work, now.

"Oh, um, no, I wasn't asleep. I'm…off work right now."

"_I don't understand_," she said, confusion evident in her voice. "_That still doesn't explain why you aren't…_" She stopped talking, and Greg knew she was thinking. "_You do still work nights…right?_"

He didn't answer right away. "No, not really."

"_What do you mean, 'not really'?_" She sounded harsh now, and he winced.

"Well, I mean, I worked nights a few days ago."

"_Do you not work there anymore or something?!_"

"No, Sara, no, I still work there. Don't worry."

He heard her sigh. "_Speak, Sanders_._ Now_."

He smiled wistfully. He had missed her so much.

"I work days. Ecklie really does suck."

He expected her to exclaim something in surprise or fury, maybe demand answers, shoot off a thousand questions, scream at him, ask him why, or even laugh at his weak sense of humour. He did not, however, expect the harsh sound of the dial tone.

He placed the phone back in the holder and sat silently on his couch, one knee pressed up against his chest with his arms wrapped around it, as muted images flashed across the television screen.

* * *

A knock on the door awoke him; he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep, still sitting on his couch. The crick in his neck reminded him, though, and told him he should go straight to bed next time.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was four in the afternoon. He stood up slowly, having a minor blood rush to his head, and made his way over to the door, all the time wondering who it could be. He didn't plan on having any visitors, after all.

"Sara?"

There she was, standing with a blank expression and searching dark brown eyes, dressed in a black sweater, light blue shirt, and white pants. Her hair was wavy, he noticed; he liked it better that way. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten that she was coming down from San Francisco.

"I…" He smiled widely, gripping the doorframe tightly. "My God, it's so good to see you!"

She smiled softly in return, but didn't speak. The corners of his mouth slipped, his grin fading slightly, but not completely.

"Is, um… Is something wrong?"

She turned her head to look down the hallway, then stared at him again and opened her mouth silently for a moment before answering. "I'm just…trying to adjust coming back here, and everything being so different."

"Yeah," he said lightly, "a lot of things have happened since you left."

Noticing that she was still in the hallway and he was standing in the doorway, he hastily said, "Wanna come in?" and to his relief she nodded and stepped inside, and he closed the door behind them.

"Wow, you've definitely redone your apartment," she said sarcastically, looking around. She glanced at him, a smirk on her lips, before sighing and murmuring, "It feels weird, like I was just in here yesterday, when really it's been…"

"Six months?"

She didn't answer, and he sighed, moving into the kitchen.

"Want something to eat? Drink?" he offered.

"Just water," she said, following him and sitting at the table. She held her chin in her hands, and he felt her eyes on him as he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

"What?" he asked, sitting down across from her and passing her the drink.

She smiled again and he couldn't help but mirror her. "Nothing, I just forgot how…"

"How devilishly handsome I am?" he said jokingly, leaning back in his chair. It was amazing, how light and happy he felt with her back. It was as if she never left. "Admit it, Sara, life sucks without me in it."

She chuckled. "I wouldn't go that far."

"But you still missed me," he stated, grinning cheerfully. He practically _felt_ the spark enter his eyes once again.

"Of course I did," she replied. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her water. "It's been different."

"How was everything over in Frisco?"

Her smile suddenly dropped and a sad look entered her eyes. Greg's expression turned downhill as well, immediately following hers. All he could think about was that something bad had happened to her while away, and he hadn't been there to help her…

"Did something happen?" he asked, in worry.

"No, no," she said, snapping back into the moment. She looked away for a second before continuing. "I just forgot that…I never contacted you."

That stung.

He chose not to say anything.

She stared straight into his eyes.

"I can tell that things haven't been going well here," she whispered.

"I guess you could say that," he said in a tight voice.

"I mean, besides Warrick."

He couldn't stand her penetrating gaze anymore, so he looked over to the wall at his left.

"Is that why you transferred?" she asked quietly. "Because of Nick?"

And the tears came. At first they wavered over the edge of his eyelids, as if waiting for the signal to fall, and when it came they just took the plunge, not caring about his feelings at all and just wanting to go for the ride. His still slightly sore bottom lip was chewed once again, and his right hand gripped the table edge hard while his left fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

"Greg?" she whispered, leaning towards him.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and slid down his chair several inches until his head was resting against the back of it. His throat ached from holding back the sobs; he wanted nothing more than to completely break down and scream at her, hate her for leaving him all alone, abandoning him with his feelings and forcing him to try to pick up the pieces and stand up again. But he was still on the floor, kneeling, and waiting for somebody to come grab his hand and help him onto his feet.

"Oh, Greg… I thought—"

"What?" he said bitingly, opening his eyes and glaring at the ceiling, which was blurry and smudged due to the ever-growing amount of tears. "That I would get over it? Move on? When during the whole time that you _were_ here, I couldn't do it?!"

She shook her head. "Greg, if anyone understands unrequited love, it's me."

"Yeah, but you ended up with Grissom. Even now, he still loves you."

She didn't say anything. She knew better than to give him false, impossible hope, that maybe one day Nick would love him too, and they could be happy together. No, she had only done that once, at the beginning of it all, and never since.

He sighed. He knew he should ask more about her, see how she was doing, but if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't much care. It had been her decision to leave without saying goodbye. Actually, thinking about that—

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" he whispered brokenly, still not looking at her. He didn't think he could, not while waiting for this answer. He might break, then.

She was silent for several minutes before answering in a quiet voice, "I didn't know how."

He laughed harshly, though it sounded more like a sob, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"We were best friends, Sar," he said, referring back to her nickname unconsciously. "Do you have any idea how stunned I was, when I found out that you were gone?"

"It was hard for me, too," she said in her defence. He heard the walls being built inside of her, and wished she didn't feel like she had to be on her guard around him. He certainly wasn't protecting his own vulnerability. "There was too much going on here, and I couldn't deal with it."

"It was because of Natalie, wasn't it?" he asked quietly.

"Don't talk about that." Her voice was hard.

He sat up again, the tears finally subsiding. His eyes were scratchy, though.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "If you won't tell me what's bothering you, then I'm not saying another damn word."

Her glare was deadly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want to spill everything out and wear his heart on his sleeve, only for her to remain secretive and protective of her feelings. As if he was one to laugh at somebody else's vulnerability.

They stared at each other, eyes narrowed, for several minutes, before Greg caved in—goddamn his diminishing confidence—and murmured, "It's not good to keep things in, Sara."

"As if you're telling me that," she spat.

"I would have told you _everything_ if you hadn't just left unexpectedly with no ways of contacting you, and wouldn't answer my calls!" he exclaimed, fury boiling in his veins. "You know that you're the only person I trust enough to talk to!"

"Nobody else would have thought any different of you if you had just _told_ them what was wrong, and not gone into this stupid depression!"

He wanted to hit her. He wasn't a violent person, and would never hurt a woman, but god_damn_ it, he wanted to hit her right then.

"You're one to fucking talk!" he yelled. "How many people did you confide in when you were longing for Grissom, huh?"

Once again, she simply glared at him. He was fed up. She had always been like this—trying to force him to burn all his walls of self-protection, and yet keep hers up and reinforced. He'd succeeded in making her trust him, sometimes, like when she told him about her childhood and the foster homes, but those times were few and far between; whereas he decided to let her in and trust her with his life, telling her everything, confiding all of his feelings and thoughts. She probably knew him better than he did. And what did she do?

She left him out cold. Without a goodbye.

"Was it me, Sara?" he asked desperately. "Did you leave because I didn't try to help you enough after Natalie?"

Her gaze hardened even more.

"Not everything is about you, Greg," she said in a dangerous tone. "And besides, I didn't want your help."

She might as well have pulled out a knife and slid it down into his stomach. He sat there, dumbfounded and hurt, all the fight gone from him.

She had been his best friend.

"Fine," he said quietly.

She had been his best friend, and she had left him without saying goodbye.

"I should get going," she muttered, her voice still harsh, standing up and walking to the door.

She had been his_ best friend_. She had _left_.

"I trust you Sara," he told her, and she stopped and looked at him. "I still do."

She didn't move at first, didn't say anything; but then she shook her head and continued her way to the only exit from the room. From him. "You shouldn't put all of your trust in another person, Greg. You might get hurt too deep." And she closed the door behind her.

But he already knew that. Grabbing her unfinished bottle of water and twisting the cap back onto it, he stood up and put it back in the fridge, at the front of the tray.

He already knew that he could get hurt.

But he still trusted her.

* * *

He slept listlessly that night, his dreams full of masked people, a hand resting on his bare stomach, Sara, and everyone else's disgusted faces. He woke up with a jolt, a cold sweat formed on his forehead and the bed sheets twisted around him. In a moment of delirium, he chuckled at the fact that if someone else had been in his bed with him, they would have no blankets.

The reason he was awake showed itself a second later, after he blinked several times to clear his blurry vision and shook away the remnants of sleep in his mind. Someone was knocking on his door.

His gut twisting at the thought of it being Sara again, he hastily stumbled out of bed and down the hall, successfully avoiding all the furniture in his path. As he unlocked the door and opened it, he rubbed his eyes with his hand.

"I didn't mean to wake you up."

His head snapped up and his gaze met Nick's, and he instantly wondered if he was dreaming again. He discreetly pinched his arm, making it look like he was scratching it. No change. He was indeed awake. That could make things complicated.

"Oh, no, it's…it's okay," he said, his voice cracking from disuse. He cleared his throat. "What's, um… What's up?"

Nick, for his part, looked uncomfortable and seemed to feel bad for waking him up. Greg noticed his eyes lower for a second and looked down, embarrassment and horror breaking any sleepiness that remained. He was only wearing boxers, as he always did when he slept, but he had been too delirious to put on some clothes before heading to the door. Memories of his attacker's sneer flashed before his eyes.

"Um…" He avoided looking at Nick's face. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah, if that would be okay. But I can come back later, if you want."

_No_, he thought in defeat, as he shook his head and opened the door wider, letting Nick in. _That wouldn't be such a good idea_. He wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, anyway, now that Nick had shown up at his apartment. Did it mean that Nick still wanted to be his friend, even though in his last voice message he'd made it clear that it was over? (Technically, Greg had finalized that deal by not calling him back, but Nick was still the one who decided enough was enough.)

"Just…give me a second," he said awkwardly, and rushed off to his bedroom to throw on a shirt and pants. Upon returning to the kitchen, where Nick had settled himself in one of the chairs and was looking a bit distracted, Greg cleared his throat and walked towards the fridge. "Want anything to eat or drink?"

Nick's head snapped towards him. "Got a beer?" he asked. "I ate before I came."

Greg nodded and reached into the fridge for the case of beer he still had from the other week, when he had felt like forgetting. His hand paused for a second when he saw Sara's unfinished bottle of water, but he mentally shook himself and pulled out a beer. Sitting down across from Nick, he passed the bottle over, the scene uncannily similar to the one between him and Sara just hours earlier.

"So, what's going on?" he asked, the uncomfortable silence driving him crazy. He tried not to think about the fact that Nick had come _here_, unannounced, like he had just popped in to say hello. Maybe he was asking for too much.

Nick glanced down at his hands, which were circled around his beer.

"I just, uh, figured I'd drop in to see how you're doing."

Greg was silent for a moment, his emotions and thoughts spinning wildly inside him. He was confused; one minute Nick didn't seem to care about him, and the next he was worried about him. What did Nick _want_ from him?

"I thought we weren't friends?" The words escaped his mouth before he could hold them back, but he didn't really regret them. He was tired of Nick switching between pulling and pushing him away.

They stared at each other intensely, until Nick replied quietly, "I don't want to not be friends with you, Greg."

There was another second of silence, and then Greg smirked and leaned back in his chair. "I can tell you didn't excel in English."

Nick cracked a smile, too, and chuckled. "Whatever. You know what I mean."

Greg sighed, rubbing his left hand over his face. "I don't get you, Nick," he murmured.

"Yeah, I don't really get you either," Nick said in a serious voice, and Greg's heart sank at the implications.

"You just… You're worried about me, then you ignore me for months, and then you're on and off about wanting to be my friend."

"You're perfectly fine and happy, and then something snaps inside you one night when you're visiting me and you become depressed and semi-suicidal."

Greg looked away. "What do you want, Nick? For real?"

"What do _you_ want?"

And he realized something, right then. He wasn't the only one affected by the last two years of isolation. He'd pushed Nick away without an explanation or warning, and they had been friends, and Nick didn't know how to help him, mainly because Greg wouldn't let him. He'd been too wrapped up in his own feelings to notice it earlier.

"I know what I want," he said quietly, intensely, still staring into Nick's eyes.

Hope shone in Nick's eyes; maybe he thought that Greg was going to tell him everything now, finally. Greg honestly contemplated it. Maybe Nick wouldn't flip out, or hate him, or beat him up. He would be shocked, yes—most people were when told someone loved them and they had had no idea. But maybe he wouldn't really mind, and Greg could be at ease now that he knew that Nick was aware of his feelings.

"What, Greg?" Nick asked in a soft voice. His gaze was so caring, so concerned and eager, that Greg felt his barriers crumble to the ground and lay in a fog of dust, the only remains of his previous protection. He bit his lip and fiddled with his hands in his lap, looking down at his knees. One of them jiggled in nervousness and anticipation.

"W-Why did you come here?" he said instead, his brief moment of confidence vanishing when he looked into Nick's eyes again.

He saw the disappointment on his friend's face (how amazing it felt, to be able to call Nick his friend again). _It's okay_, he wanted to say. _I'm disappointed in me, too_.

"Just wanted to know how you're doing, after…well…" Nick looked away, his expression showing Greg that he felt uncomfortable.

"I'm—I'm fine," he stuttered quietly. "My arm's slowly getting better, and the concussion's gone, as long as I don't do anything to jostle my head. The bruises are fading, too…"

"That wasn't what I was talking about." Nick gazed at him again, an odd glint in his eyes. Greg couldn't figure it out. "I mean…about the…emotional side of things."

_Oh_. Humiliation and shame made his face flush and he stared down at his hands, willing the nausea to leave his stomach. This was horrible; he was once again reminded that Nick had seen everything that night.

"You shouldn't feel ashamed, Greg," Nick said quietly, yet firmly. "You did nothing wrong, and you did not deserve it."

Unwanted tears welled in his eyes, only adding to his embarrassment.

"I was too weak to fight him off," he whispered in a broken voice. He laughed cruelly at himself and rested his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, so he didn't have to look at Nick. "I'm in my thirties, and I was almost raped."

They were both silent for a while, where Greg figured that Nick agreed with him, until the other man spoke again in a hesitant voice.

"When…I was nine," he said quietly, "I was…abused."

Greg's head shot up, his eyes wide.

"Sexually," Nick clarified. He stared at a place over Greg's shoulder, his eyes unfocused.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Greg said. "I had no idea…"

Nick shrugged, still not looking at him. "Last minute babysitter, you know. At first, afterwards, I thought it was my fault. That I deserved it, that I did something wrong. And I didn't want any woman touching me for a long time, thinking that they all wanted to hurt me, but…I realized that that wasn't true." His eyes focused again and he stared into Greg's tear-filled eyes. "I realized that it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't weak or pathetic. And I learned that not every woman was bad.

"Am I right in guessing that you feel uncomfortable in another guy's presence?" Nick asked, his attention suddenly on Greg's problems.

"Y-Yeah," he answered, then backtracked. "But not you," he said quickly. "I trust you, I don't… I know you would never…do that to me, or anyone…"

"It's normal to be wary, Greg. I didn't even trust my mother or sisters at first."

"I just…" He couldn't believe he was about to say this, but… "I can't get him…off of me, you know? I still…feel him on me…" He looked away.

"He can't hurt you anymore, Greg," Nick said softly. "He's going to jail, for murdering that woman and hurting you."

"I really don't want to testify," he whispered, staring desperately back at Nick, who smiled gently.

"I'll do my best to make sure the evidence speaks for you."

Greg smiled gratefully at him, thinking to himself, _This is why I love you, Nick_. His heart skipped a beat at the look of sincerity in Nick's eyes.

"I…I never got to thank you," he said. "For coming that night, I mean. Things would have…happened, if you didn't help me."

A pained look crossed Nick's features. "I keep thinking about what could have happened if I didn't call," he said quietly. "I'm just glad I got there in time. It's too bad I couldn't come sooner."

"It isn't your fault," Greg said when he noticed the guilt in his friend's eyes.

"Not yours, either."

Greg smiled at him, though he was still unsure about that. He could have fought harder, not been so scared of the gun.

"I've never had a gun in my face before," he muttered, staring down at the table. "I can't believe you've gone through that twice, and you weren't affected by it."

Nick's nose scrunched up. "I was affected," he said slowly. "Still am. But I just, I dunno, feel thankful that the trigger was never pulled."

Greg nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Me, too. I'm not ready to die."

He saw Nick smile widely and look at the wall to his right, relief and happiness obvious on his face.

And Greg thought, _I might never be ready to leave you, Nicky_.

-9-


	9. Waves Crash

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title comes from the song quoted below. Character death, but not a major character. Happy reading and, as always, a review would be lovely :-)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter eight:  
_Waves Crash

* * *

'_Speak up, my ears are growing weary; I'll sing this to the end, and watch the waves crash over me; not too much to overcome with enough time to turn it all around; in a picture perfect scenery I've become a stick figure illustration; my eyes roll back and focus on what's ahead; I can still stand if you lend the hand to embrace me; I'll take this on my own.'_ – Underoath, "Casting Such a Thin Shadow"

* * *

**G**reg shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out under the table.

"So," Nick said softly, staring into his eyes again. "Everything's been okay lately?"

"Yeah," Greg said with a small grin. "I'm fine. Just disappointed that I have to miss work for a couple of days."

Nick chuckled. "At least you don't have to see Ecklie for a while."

Greg titled his head to the side and nodded, as though contemplating Nick's words. "That is true," he laughed.

Nick cleared his throat after taking a sip of beer. "So, uh, Sara's back, you know that?"

Instantly, Greg's expression closed up and his gaze hardened. Nick took notice and frowned.

"Yeah," he said tightly. "Yeah, she came by earlier."

"Seriously?" Nick's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wow, man, she must've missed you!"

Greg snorted and crossed his arms. "She called earlier, to say she was coming down. Hung up on me when she found out that I work days now."

Shaking his head, Nick took another swig of beer and leaned back in his chair. "Ah well, G, she'll get past it. She always does." He glanced at his watch and sighed. "I should get going," he said slowly, as if he was reluctant to leave. Greg liked to think so. His chest expanded as a warmth encased it. "Gotta catch some sleep before shift." Greg stood up and followed him to the door. He didn't want him to leave—they were _friends_ again! They just had a conversation that held no hostility, and the best part about it was that Greg didn't feel like he needed to go to the bathroom and throw up.

"Say hi to Sara for me tonight," he said as lightly as he could, trying to mask his disappointment that Nick had to leave so soon.

Smiling at him, Nick nodded and stepped in to the hallway. "Will do," he said cheerfully. "Take care, G."

Greg closed the door and leaned his forehead against it, a small smile gracing his lips.

* * *

Exiting the bathroom with a towel around his waist, Greg shook a stray water droplet from his eye as he made his way into his bedroom to get changed. It was early in the morning, and he planned on doing some grocery shopping before the traffic got too congested.

He sighed in content, pulling a t-shirt over his head. There was no more rift between him and Nick, and it felt so refreshing, so uplifting, to know that. For the first time in _so long_, Greg felt it easy to breathe when he was near or thinking about Nick.

He knew that his was the way love _should_ be. It had taken him nearly losing Nick completely, to make him realize that if they were friends, everything would still be all right, even if he never let his feelings known. Because being close to Nick as a friend was much better than not being close to him at all.

Finished dressing, he walked to the kitchen and grabbed his wallet and keys off the table. He was thankful he was still able to drive, because he was rapidly running low on food. What had he eaten for the past two years? The cupboards were nearly empty—just some peanuts in the back corner with several other random snack foods—and the fridge barely had anything in it, too. He hadn't noticed himself get so thin.

But he felt hungry again, a feeling he hadn't experienced in months now. He _wanted_ to do things: go shopping, eat, socialize, hell, just go out in general, even if it was just to walk around the block until sunset.

Just as he was about to reach for the doorknob and exit his apartment, his phone rang. He sighed and rolled his eyes at the person's timing.

"Yeah?" he greeted, impatiently. As if somebody was stopping him from _living_. He hadn't _lived_ in two years, damn it, and now someone had the nerve to screw it up!

"_Man, you have got it all wrong with Sara_."

His eyes widened. "Nick?"

"_Yup_._ Anyway, listen to this_—" Greg heard a door close, like a door. Dangerous scenarios of Nick crashing because he was so focused on talking into his cell phone assaulted his mind, and he had to bite his lip in order to remain silent. "_I just got to work, right, and we were sitting in the break room waiting for Sara, when she came barrelling into the room, looking ready to just whip out a knife and hold it to Grissom's throat_._ She went right up to him, seriously Greg, and she started going on and on, screaming, about you working days_."

Greg's eyes widened and he leaned against the wall. Absently he noticed that he wasn't weak in the knees from hearing Nick's voice over the phone. Instead, he felt as though he could run five marathons consecutively, because Nick had called him just to chat, like old times…

"What?" he said in shock.

"_Me and Catherine were so surprised that we didn't even say anything_._ Grissom looked pretty stunned too_._ She kept accusing us of not noticing things or not caring about you and what was going on in your personal life_—"

"Oh, shit," Greg mumbled, closing his eyes tightly and rubbing them.

"—_and she said that if you felt it necessary to transfer shifts, then we obviously had our heads up our asses too far to see what was just feet in front of us_._ Scared the hell outta me, actually_._ Sara's a scary woman when she gets going, I'm telling you_._ Grissom had to send her to a crime scene solo because she was ready to pull all of us apart_."

"Um… Wow…" His heart thumped wildly in his chest.

"_Yeah_… _Listen, Greg, I just_… _You know we care about you, right?_"

"What?"

"_Because honestly, we didn't_—_I didn't_—_know things were getting so extreme for you to feel uncomfortable around us anymore_."

"Haven't we already talked about this?" Greg asked in a choked voice that he prayed Nick didn't notice.

"_Yeah, but_…_I just keep wondering what happened, you know? And it's pretty clear that it was one of us, or all of us, that made you want to change_._ It's bothering us, is all_."

"It's…under control now, don't worry about it." And he meant it, at least for the most part. As long as Nick didn't bring us subjects such as this one.

"_You sure?_" Greg couldn't believe that he caught the insecurity in Nick's voice. He sounded frustrated at himself, guilty. Greg didn't want that, not at all. It wasn't Nick's fault. "_Because_…_we're willing to_…_to do whatever it takes to make it okay again, between all of us_._ We want you back on the night shift, G_."

Greg almost started to cry.

A light smile stretching across his face, he closed his eyes as happiness washed over him. "No, everything's okay," he said softly.

"_So_… _Can you come back?_"

He hesitated for a second, tilting his head to the side until his cheek was resting against the wall. His lids opened halfway and he stared at the hardwood flooring with glazed eyes.

"_Greg? Will you? Please?_"

"I'll think about it," he whispered. "Listen Nick, I have to go."

"_All right_._ Just think about it, you know, like a lot_." He heard the grin in Nick's voice and he chuckled lightly.

"Bye."

"_See you soon_."

And Greg slid to the floor, his phone hanging loosely in his left hand, his happiness making him dizzy. He rested his head on his knees as a wide smile stretched his lips.

* * *

Paperwork sucked. It really did. He'd already gathered that much from watching Sara holed up in an office filling out forms with her cast, six months ago, but actually doing the bloody task opened his mind even wider to the boring, relentless job. It was not how he liked spending his days.

He placed down his pen and rubbed his eyes. It was near impossible to write neatly with his left hand. It took all of his concentration—and a lot of practicing the alphabet on scrap pieces of paper—just to print intelligibly, and he'd been doing so for hours now. He was ready to just march into Ecklie's office and drop the papers onto his desk. Or burn them. Whichever.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting his head on the table. His head hurt. And his right wrist. The pain medication wasn't working at all. A horrible throbbing pounded at it, reminding him that no, he couldn't just forget about it, and yes, it was going to hurt like a bitch for a while now. He opened his eyes and stared sideways at the sheet of paper beside his head, the print blurry from being so close to it. It looked so innocent. He scowled at it, wishing it would just disappear.

Nick's words suddenly popped into his head.

_So… Can you come back?_

A part of him wanted to—really, really wanted to. He was friends with Nick again and the painful twinge in his chest had vanished, making it easier to breathe. He no longer felt constricted, like someone was pressing down on his chest and refusing to get off. There was no icy grip on his heart. He was okay again, he was sure of it. He even smiled at the thought of Nick again, instead of grimacing and hunching his shoulders and attempting to hide from the world.

But another part of him told him to stay on day shift, to just take things slowly. He was close enough to Nick right now, so why rush it? He should see how it went, make sure they didn't distance themselves again. Make sure things would _stay_ all right between them. Sara was back, which meant they didn't really need him on the shift to help them out, so there was no pressure there. There wasn't any pressure at all, really, aside from that he created himself. And he didn't want to push himself anymore—he wanted to lie low and see where life took him.

Sighing again, he lifted his head and picked up the pen. Maybe if he finished the paperwork early, Ecklie would let him go out into the field to help. He snorted. Yeah, right.

The door opened, causing him to startle out of his silent reverie and snap his head towards the sound. It was Malcolm, and he was deathly pale. Greg looked down and saw a sheet of paper being held in Malcolm's tight grip. His knuckles were white.

"Malcolm?" Greg asked slowly, turning his chair around to face his friend. "Is everything okay?"

Malcolm inhaled shakily and briskly walked forward, thrusting the paper in Greg's direction. Greg took the sheet, but didn't look at it.

"What's going on?" he asked instead, concern shining in his eyes as his eyebrows furrowed.

Malcolm nodded jerkily towards the paper. "Results from the palm print on Warrick's car door."

"You mean you finally got into the print lab?" Greg said loudly, excited. "Awesome! Nobody saw you, right?"

"Shut up, Greg!" Malcolm hissed.

Greg frowned. "You're on edge. What's wrong?"

"Just read the damn results, and maybe you'll get a bit agitated too!"

Greg glanced down at the paper, and upon seeing the results, his blood ran cold and his heart stopped. His hands began to shake.

"What?" he whispered. "How… How can this… _What?!_"

Malcolm sighed and sat down on the table, on top of some of the papers Greg had yet to fill out. He closed his eyes momentarily before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"We have to stop," he said after a long pause.

"What?!" Greg exclaimed. "Are you fucking kidding me, Niles?"

"Greg, _shut up!_"

"_I am not stopping just because it's fucking McKeen who killed Warrick!_" he yelled.

Malcolm hastily closed the door and rounded on Greg, an angry glint in his eyes.

"Lower your voice, Sanders! Don't you understand just how _fucked_ we would be if McKeen found out what we're doing? We'd be fired before you could haul your ass out of this country in hiding! Not to mention probably _killed_, since we know the truth, just like Brown did!"

Greg's breath stilled and became chilled. "You think…that's why he killed him? Because he found out he was the mole?"

"Of course! Or going to find out, either way, McKeen probably figured he had to get rid of him."

Greg paused for a moment before he looked back down at the paper. "Okay," he said. "Okay, so now we have something to work on."

"_What?_" Malcolm hissed.

"Yeah," Greg said with a nod. "Now we can… We have proof now, right? And I can go sneak into the DNA lab soon to prove that it's Warrick's blood, and then we can show it to Ecklie."

"Ecklie already knows," Malcolm said quietly.

"He what?!" Greg's eyes widened. "How in the hell did he find out?"

Running a hand through his hair, Malcolm explained, "He saw me coming out of the print lab. I had Warrick's file with me, I took it from your locker—which you forgot to lock, by the way, _genius_—and he saw some of the photos. He told me to drop it, or else I'd be suspended."

Greg snorted. "As if we're stopping because of _Ecklie_."

"I would rather keep my job, thanks."

"You said suspended, not fired."

"Yeah, but what if Ecklie tells McKeen about this? We're royally fucked. McKeen will instantly know that we got some sort of print off the car, and he knows that it'll be his."

Dread pooled in Greg's stomach.

"What… What should we do?"

Malcolm sighed again. "Drop it. For good. There's nothing more we can do, Greg. We're putting our lives in danger by doing this."

"But…it's _Warrick_," he countered miserably. His voice was barely above a whisper. "He _deserves_ to have justice, Malcolm, you don't understand—"

"I didn't even know him, for Christ's sake. I was only doing this because I knew something was up when Ecklie told us to close it as a suicide."

"Yeah, but…"

He had nothing to say, and perhaps Malcolm realized this too, because he simply left the room and closed the door behind him.

And Greg stared at the results in his hand, unable to look away.

* * *

He fell asleep.

He was standing at the front of the building, the only person around. Everything was grey and blurry and snow fell readily, obscuring his vision. He heard the rush of hundreds of footsteps and the distant rattle of machine guns firing, all of the noise acting like an avalanche falling towards him, but nothing was in sight. All he saw was a dark blizzard blowing disjointed voices around, words being cut off and screaming into his ears. He heard a young girl's screams, a teenage boy's cry of despair and fury. He heard a horse's frightened shriek. A man's insane laughter and a woman's desperate and broken pleading. He heard bones break and air rush out of lungs.

And then everything went silent and he was suddenly staring to his left, where a cloaked figure stood, the only unmoving object in the flurry of voices and images and ice and snow that assaulted his vision. He heard the stranger's whispers and murmurs, calling to him, even though the figure's hooded head was bowed and his shoulders hunched forward, like a man holding all the world's secrets.

A gust of icy wind hit his back and he stepped forward, towards the stranger. When Greg was close to him he saw that it was a young boy, probably around the age of ten or so. The boy raised his head, and his ice blue eyes were the only colour in this chaotic world inside Greg's head. They were also the exact same shade as Malcolm's.

The boy, without breaking their eye contact, pointed towards the back of the building. Greg stepped forward and peered around the wall, and a gunshot rang through the air.

Gasping, he jolted awake and opened his eyes, sitting back in his chair. Shaking his head, he glanced at his watch. His shift was over in a few minutes. Closing his eyes briefly, he stuffed the palm print results in his shirt and gathered all of the paperwork he'd managed to do. He dropped it off on Ecklie's desk, his boss nodding to him, before heading to the locker room to gather his bag.

He sat on the bench, thinking back on his dream. A sinking dread was slowly leaking from his subconscious, trying to tell him something, warn him. He swallowed roughly and, trembling slightly, headed for the entrance doors. Once he was outside in the parking lot he contemplated simply going home, but instead he bit his lip as his mind screamed at him to do something. What, he wasn't sure, but every time he blinked he swore he saw the boy with shocking blue eyes standing over to the side, watching him, his hooded figure hunched over and desolate.

He exhaled shakily and imagined his breath coming out in a frozen cloud, the air around him chilled. For a second he saw snow falling, but he blinked and it disappeared. He shook his head and began walking towards the edge of the building. Every step seemed to drag him down, as though a force beyond his control was pulling on his arms and digging its heels in, screaming at him, _Turn back! Turn back!_ But he knew he had to keep going; there was something waiting for him there, behind the building.

He walked along the side of the building, running his hand along the brick wall. His breathing quieted when he reached the corner. One more step and a shift to the left, and he would see what was beckoning to him.

He stepped around the edge and breathed in, his hand still on the wall.

And he threw himself over to the side and threw up.

Because there was so much _blood_ and he could _smell_ it and there was a _body_ with a _gunshot wound to the head_ and the eyes were so _open_ and _lifeless_ and it was _Malcolm_—

He was on his hands and knees crawling towards his lifeless friend, as though a rope was dragging him forward. He wanted to go away, he wanted to run or fall unconscious and wake up in bed and just forget… But he also wanted—needed—to know if this was real, that this wasn't a joke, or fake.

And so he kept crawling.

He wasn't breathing anymore, couldn't. His lungs were restricted, or maybe it was his throat. Probably his throat. There was a horrible lump there, choking his words and gulps of air and thoughts. He reached out with a violently shaking hand.

"Oh, God," he moaned brokenly, falling onto his elbows. He sobbed dryly, noticing that tears had yet to well in his eyes.

He looked down at his hand and saw that he was holding his cell phone, and it was ringing on the other line. He didn't remember calling anybody. Shaking uncontrollably, he placed the phone at his ear. He heard the click indicating that the other person had picked up.

"_Greg?_" the person asked, but he was too far gone to recognize the voice.

He swallowed, trying to destroy the lump in his throat. "Please," he begged hysterically. "Please, help me!"

"_Greg, what's going on?_"

He sobbed again, this time accompanied by tears slipping down his cheeks and over his nose. They were falling at a fast pace.

"Please, please, please," he whispered. "Oh my God, please, help me! Help him! I can't help him, he isn't moving, I don't know if he's breathing!"

"_Greg! Is someone hurt? Are you hurt?_"

He took a deep breath and stared into Malcolm's ice blue eyes. "He's been shot! It's bad! There—There's blood everywhere and I don't know what happened and he can't be dead he can't be dead he _can't be dead_—"

"_Greg, where are you?_"

He looked up and all he saw was a brick wall. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.

"I don't…I don't know," he whispered. He slowly backed away from Malcolm's body and crawled to the side of the building, leaning against it. He stared straight ahead, though everything was blurry and held no features. He could be floating in the middle of the ocean, for all he knew, or falling through the sky at neck breaking speeds…

"_I'm going to track your phone, okay Greg? Are you in danger?_"

But he was having trouble speaking, and didn't even hear the person's voice at first.

"What?" he asked in a toneless voice.

"_Are you in any danger?_"

"Oh." He glanced down at Malcolm's body, his eyes half-lidded and emotionless-less. He couldn't feel his face. "No, I don't think he's going to hurt me."

"_He? Is there someone else there, Greg?_"

He frowned. "Well, yeah, but I already told you that. He's hurt, remember?"

"_I almost know where you are_._ Is he hurt badly, Greg? Where was he shot?_"

"In the forehead. He can't be dead, okay? Don't tell me he's dead."

The other person was silent for a moment. "_We know where you, all right? We'll be there in a few seconds_."

"Bring some bandages, would you? There's a lot of blood." He hung up and leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, bringing his knees up to his chest and leaning his arms on them. His cell phone fell to the ground.

* * *

There were voices. Footsteps. And a hand on his shoulder, shaking it. He opened his eyes blearily and turned to look at the person.

"Grissom?" he asked, his voice cracking in the middle. His throat hurt.

Grissom's face was pale and his eyes shone with worry. "Yeah, Greg, we're here." His hand remained on Greg's shoulder, as though he were offering some sort of support. His eyes trailed to Greg's right and Greg followed his gaze. Malcolm.

"He can't be dead," he whispered. He stared into Grissom's eyes. "Please, Grissom, he can't be dead."

He saw Grissom swallow. "I'm sorry, Greg. Come on, let's get you out of here."

Grissom pulled him to his feet and he stood there motionlessly, barely breathing. Malcolm was dead. He didn't dare look down at his friend, for he knew he would break down or go ballistic.

Grissom eyed his clothes. "Is that Malcolm's blood, Greg?"

Confused, he looked down and swayed where he stood. There was blood covering his hands and shirt. His vision doubled, and he fell back several steps until he hit the wall, Grissom's hands still gripping his shoulders for support.

"What… I…" He looked up at Grissom helplessly. "I don't know what…"

"Are you hurt, Greg?" Grissom asked intensely. "Is this all Malcolm's blood?"

He took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of blood. He felt his face pale.

"I don't even remember touching him," he whispered in horror. "When did I…?" He began breathing heavier and faster, and he brought his hands up and grabbed Grissom's forearms. "Grissom, what if I did this?" he asked quickly, his eyes wide and his heartbeat erratic. "What if I killed him?"

"Greg, don't talk like that," Grissom said quietly.

"I don't have a gun!" he said frantically. "I swear to God, I didn't want to kill him, I never have—"

"Greg—!"

"Are you confessing, Sanders?" another voice suddenly cut through his and Grissom's conversation, and Greg shifted his gaze. It landed on Ecklie, who was staring at him critically. "Are you saying that you killed Malcolm Niles?"

"No he isn't, Conrad," Grissom said tightly.

"I don't…" Greg stared down at the body in horror. "Oh, my God…" He sank back down to the ground, unable to take his eyes off his fallen friend.

"Is that a yes or a no, Sanders?" Ecklie asked loudly.

Greg's mind was reeling. Had he killed him? Had he murdered his friend? There was blood on his clothes, and it was all Malcolm's, he knew that. And nobody else had been here when he saw the body. Maybe his mind had just created the alternative way of him getting here, instead of the real way, in which he had lured Malcolm back here, perhaps telling him he wanted to talk about Warrick, and then he shot him in the head.

"I don't know," he whispered, and vaguely he heard Grissom curse under his breath. "I didn't mean… I didn't want to hurt…"

"Sounds like a confession to me, Gil." That was Ecklie.

"He's in shock, Conrad!" Grissom. "He isn't confessing, he's confused!"

"You told me yourself he's been out of sorts for over two years now—" Ecklie.

"Don't you dare, Ecklie!" Grissom. He sounded dangerous, his voice icy and low. Greg realized he wasn't holding his shoulders anymore. He felt ready to fall to pieces. "Greg isn't a murderer, there isn't even a weapon here!"

"He could have tossed it and come back, Gil, and you know it." Greg heard him snap his fingers. "Officer, cuff him and bring him to the station. Greg Sanders, you're under arrest for the murder of CSI Malcolm Niles."

And everything slipped out of focus, and Greg closed his eyes.

-9-


	10. Better This Way

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Chapter title comes from the song quoted below. I updated today because I won't be able to until Sunday night, so I figured I'd give you guys a chapter early rather than late :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter nine:  
_Better This Way

* * *

'_In a deep breath it all starts to change; flip my world inside out, when I mesh the night through the back of my eyes; I have put myself here, I am the culprit; I've been swallowed up alive, shut down, building from the inside out; I can finally walk through the walls; I swear I've slipped right through the cracks in the floor, it's so easy when it's pulling me under; now I can see things from the outside, and I will sit here with no place in mind; I can't escape from this place, this is so unfamiliar to me; I can hear the unsatisfying silence; my mouth is open but none of you can hear me.'_ – Underoath, "Everyone Looks So Good From Here"

* * *

**H**e stared blankly at the table in front of him, his eyes half-lidded, and a dead feeling inside him, engulfing him in numbness. His shirt and pants were folded on the corner of the table. Nobody had come in to ask him for his clothes yet, but he had done this so many times with suspects that he knew exactly what was going to happen. What he really didn't look forward to was waiting while they processed his clothing.

He wondered who would be investigating Malcolm's death. Hopefully Grissom would fight for the case—_Not a case_, he reminded himself, _this is Malcolm_—because Ecklie obviously thought he had killed Malcolm, his only friend on day shift, and once Ecklie had it in his head that someone was the criminal, then he became close minded and set on sending that person to jail. Grissom knew Greg. And Greg knew, or at least hoped he did, that Grissom didn't think him capable of killing somebody purposely (neither did Greg, really), and just like when Warrick was framed for Gedda's death, Grissom would work endless hours to prove that he was innocent. Swing shift wasn't an option, Greg was sure, since this would most likely become a personal conflict between Grissom and Ecklie.

The door opened and closed. He didn't bother lifting his gaze from the table as the person stood across from him and sighed, setting the red jumpsuit on the table in front of him.

"Greg?" It was Grissom.

He didn't look up, just responded tonelessly, "Yeah?"

There was a long moment of silence, where Greg memorized the reflection of the lights on the glossy table. He heard Grissom sigh again before murmuring, "Put these on, Greg," pointing to the jumpsuit sitting in front of him, and gathering up Greg's shirt and pants and exiting the room.

So, the night shift was investigating. That was a small bonus, at least. Ecklie could go to Hell.

After changing into the hideous red outfit that screamed, _You're a criminal, Sanders, a fucking murderer!_ at him, he jumped onto the table and leaned back on his hands, marvelling at the sensation of his legs dangling. It felt like he was preparing to jump off the edge of a cliff, and he was going to fall into a never-ending abyss. The lights in the room were dull.

The worst part about this was his fragmented memory. It was as though his brain was trying to let him off easy, to keep him in the dark from details and events that could traumatize him even more. But didn't his mind realize that by not knowing what had happened, it was even more frightening for him? He didn't _know_ how he came to the back of the building with Malcolm, he didn't _know_ how a bullet had embedded itself in his friend's forehead, he didn't _know_ how the blood got on his clothes, he didn't _know_ if he had killed Malcolm or not. And now, he didn't know how he'd gone from the crime scene with Grissom and Ecklie, to here in this room, waiting for the team to process his clothes.

The blood would come back as Malcolm's. Ecklie would probably have a field day, knowing that Greg was possibly the murderer.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember anything of today, besides seeing Malcolm's lifeless body. He didn't know what he'd done at all. For all he knew, he could have snuck into Ballistics and stolen a gun and silencer, told Malcolm to meet him behind the crime lab, and popped him in the head before ditching the gun somewhere. Maybe he had Multiple Personality Disorder and had 'switched' during the murder, and he simply thought that he had come to the scene and found Malcolm's body, didn't consider that he was in fact the killer.

"You work here, don't you?"

He snapped his head around and stared at the officer who was standing beside the closed door. Greg hadn't noticed him there. He didn't recognize the man.

"Yeah. Why?"

The officer shrugged. "Just wonderin'. What're you in here for?"

He contemplated not telling the man anything, or just suggesting to him to shut the hell up, but decided that he may as well tell him the truth.

"Suspect for murder," he said simply.

The officer whistled. "And here I thought that if a CSI committed a crime, they would know how to not get caught."

His blood boiled and his teeth clenched.

"Listen, buddy," he said roughly. "Leave me alone. Just do your job and stand there, making sure I don't make a run for it, and don't talk to me."

"They goin' to find the victim's blood on your clothes?" Greg heard the mockery in the man's voice and it did nothing to calm his anxiety and fury.

"They're going to find your blood on these clothes pretty damn soon if you don't shut up!" he snapped. His fingers curled on the table surface and he dug his nails into the glass, wishing he could crack it.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's always a great thing to say when you're here for possible murder, eh? Threatenin' another life?"

"I try not to make a habit out of it," he said icily.

The man chuckled and stepped forward until he was right in front of Greg. "You goin' to kill me like you killed that other guy?" He cocked his head to the side. "Or was it a woman? A kid? Yeah, I can see you goin' for the young ones."

Greg was shaking in fury. "Back," he said slowly in a dangerous voice, "the fuck away from me." He distantly heard the door open, but it didn't fully register in his mind.

The officer did so, but his smirk only grew in size and malice. "Or maybe you're more into killing the guys, since you already have so much experience from that James kid last year."

Greg's breath caught in his throat. _Oh God_. The black void once again consumed his insides, tingles rushing down his arms and across his chest, as the memories flashed before his eyes and engulfed his senses. His eyes widened in fear and surprise and he began to tremble more violently, until he set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

The officer leaned in again until he was mere inches away from Greg's face.

"You should've died in that alley," the man said. "Or at least had your ass hauled to jail for killin' that kid."

He couldn't speak. The numbness that had filled him just moments before was dissolving quickly, leaving him open and vulnerable to the man's words. Blood was pounding in his ears.

'_It would have been so much easier, if you had been the black guy_.'

Suddenly there were footsteps and the officer was thrown against the wall by another person, the impact causing Greg to jump and snap back to the present. He was shocked to find Nick pinning the man by his throat, his right fist raised, about to strike him. He sat there, dumbfounded, as Catherine rushed forward and grabbed Nick's arm and tried pulling him off of the officer, but Nick seemed to be too set on hurting the man to let go of him.

"You son of a bitch!" Nick snarled. He tried once again to yank his arm out of Catherine's grip.

"Nick, stop it! Calm down!" she said loudly.

Nick finally backed off, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly. He was half-facing Greg, and Greg could see his flushed face and flashing eyes. The officer's face was pale and he looked too shocked to do anything.

"Christ, Nick," Catherine said. "We're as angry as you are, but _calm down!_"

"I swear to God," Nick hissed. He didn't get to finish his threat, however, because Sara suddenly appeared beside him and Catherine. Greg's jaw was slack. Sara's expression was stony, and he could feel the fury radiating off her.

"You don't have any idea what you're talking about," she said in a low, quiet voice that made Greg relieved that she wasn't speaking to him. She glanced at the officer scornfully. "I'm amazed you even got that badge with such a low IQ. Do you know what can happen to you, your _job_, if you're caught harassing a suspect?"

The officer finally seemed to pull himself together and glared at Sara. "You still stickin' up for him? Even when he's a suspect for murder?"

"He's only a _suspect_, first of all," Catherine said icily. "We already know he didn't do it, anyway."

A smug, triumphant, _I'm better than you, asshole, and you know it_ look appeared on Nick's face, and Catherine let go of his arm. Greg watched as Nick's gaze never wavered from the officer's face, and he crossed his arms and turned so he was sideways to Greg again.

"Yeah, right," the officer said, though Greg could tell he was losing steam since there were now three CSIs against him, and not one. "It's been what, twenty minutes? I know how long it takes for DNA results."

"The blood's not right," Sara said. "I'm sure you know the difference between blood spatter and blood transfer?"

Nick turned to Greg and smiled, his eyes softening. Greg was thankful he was sitting, still slightly in shock, because he knew his knees would have gone weak at Nick's expression. Greg swallowed, though he was sure no one noticed it.

"It's obvious that the blood on your clothing is from being in contact with a blood pool or a bleeding wound, and not from killing him. We were just on our way to tell Grissom when we heard voices," he threw another glare at the officer, who was still leaning against the wall, silent, "and decided to check in with you. Grissom, uh, said you were a bit…out of it, so, yeah…"

Nick looked uncomfortable near the end of it, and Greg's face reddened. He vaguely remembered going into shock after seeing Malcolm's body, but it must have been bad if Nick felt uneasy talking about it. He rubbed the back of his neck—his hand shook slightly, to his disappointment, and he tried his best not to let it show—and looked down at his feet. He still felt the sensation of being seconds away from jumping into nothingness, but it felt like an easier task now that Nick, Sara and Catherine were in here with him. The darkness didn't seem as daunting.

"Yeah, er…" He cleared his throat. "I don't really…remember much from today, so…"

He looked up again and met three frowns. Inside he shrunk a bit.

"What?" he asked in a weak voice.

"You really don't remember anything from today?" Sara asked seriously. "What about this morning, what did you do?"

His eyes slid out of focus as he tried to remember what he'd done, but he truly couldn't remember. He shrugged uselessly and muttered some incoherent sentence. They were silent for another minute before the officer sighed and said angrily, "I'll be standin' outside, then," and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Good riddance," Catherine muttered, and Greg smiled.

"Are you guys even allowed to be in here?" he asked as lightly as he could, though the weight of the situation still brought the levity to a standstill.

Nick snorted. "As if you really killed him, man. Besides, we came to see…" He looked away and swallowed, his expression suddenly dropping. "We saw Warrick, didn't we?" he finished in a tight voice.

Greg shifted his position on the table and swung his legs a couple of times. And then, all of sudden, Malcolm's voice echoed in his head. _'We have to stop_._'_ Stop what, though? And why?

"Greg?" Sara's voice cut through his thoughts. He hadn't noticed how stiff he had become. "You all right?"

"Y-Yeah," he stuttered, staring at the wall to his left with a furrowed brow.

"We should get going," Catherine said quietly. She turned to Greg and smiled mischievously at him. "And Greg? Next time someone gives you a hard time about the beating, just tell them that now you know a thing or two about kicking ass."

Greg laughed and stared after them as they trailed out single file. Nick hesitated before leaving the room, and he turned back to look at Greg, biting his lip. Worry and dread filled his eyes.

"Hey, G," he said quietly and softly, "you gonna be okay? This isn't gonna be one of those…Easier days, right?"

Greg couldn't believe that Nick remembered the name he called those days. Warmth filled his body, chasing out the cold that had plagued him ever since the officer's words. He smiled gratefully at Nick, hoping the Texan knew how much his concern meant to Greg.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he whispered. Nick nodded slowly, obviously still nervous.

"Okay, that…that's good. Just…talk to me, okay? if you ever need anything?"

"Thanks," Greg said softly, and Nick grinned uneasily at him before leaving as well, closing the door quietly behind him.

Greg swung his legs over to the other side of the table and leaned back so he was lying across the glass surface, throwing an arm over his eyes and smiling at the ceiling.

* * *

_Wehavetostop_—snow blinding him—_Gregshutupwehavetostopwe'llbefuckedloweryourvoice_—ice blue eyes penetrating his soul—_palmprintresultsfromWarrick'scardoor_—inhaling shakily and holding the breath—_comecomecomecomecometomelookforme_—edge of the building and just around the corner—_McKeenundersheriffstagedsuicide_—reaching forward and resting his knees in the blood pool—_justtalktomethankyouthankyouthankyou_—whispers beckoning him to see what lay beyond, broken murmurs calling to him—_wehavetostopwe'llprobablybekilled_—he hadn't killed Malcolm, he really hadn't—_wehavetostopwehavetoSTOPYOUHAVETOSTOP_—a blizzard throwing him off balance—_pullthetriggerandBANG_—

He gasped and jolted upright, trying desperately to pull in oxygen as the voices echoed in his head, dragging his mind through memories that had been suppressed just moments before. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, attempting to calm down. His breathing was heavy and shaky, his entire body trembling in shock from the flood of emotions and images assaulting his mind.

He glanced up and stared at the wall blankly, his body slack and his eyes dazed.

He knew what had happened.

* * *

"All right."

Brass sighed and joined his hands on the table, staring down at them as though searching for answers to questions he didn't have. Greg sat silently, waiting for the interrogation to begin. He wondered if anybody was watching through the adjoined room. Wondered if they wanted to know what he had to say.

"What was your relationship with Malcolm Niles?" Brass asked, now staring directly into Greg's eyes. His expression was stony and serious—the look he gave to every other suspect he interrogated. It made Greg's stomach sink. They weren't colleagues now; they were suspect and homicide detective.

"We were friends," he answered quietly. "Worked together."

"How friendly were you, exactly?"

His eyes slipped to the right as he thought about his answer. He stared into the one-way window. Was he making eye contact with anyone?

He shrugged, turning his attention back to Brass. "He was the only friend I had on day shift, really. We were okay."

Brass raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Only one friend? I thought you were more likeable than that, Sanders."

Greg just smiled.

"Did you ever have any fights? Disagreements?"

"No."

"Where were you around noon?"

Greg sighed and ran his left arm through his hair. "Finishing up some paperwork, and getting ready to leave."

"So, you were nowhere near the back of the building, or talking with Malcolm?" It almost sounded like Brass asked that question just to make it perfectly clear that Greg wasn't a murderer. He almost smiled.

"Well… I mean, I talked to Malcolm right before…" He grimaced and looked away.

"What about?"

"Um… A case."

"Which case?"

_Jesus Christ_.

"Why does that matter?"

"I'm just asking. How about you answer?"

"It was just… I can't remember."

"What?"

"I, uh, can't really remember much of today."

Brass sighed. "Listen, Sanders, if you don't give me straight answers, you're going to look guilty."

Greg was silent for several minutes, staring at the wall to his left. He had thought a lot during the time he was awake, sitting on the table, and he had come to a conclusion. The fact that Malcolm was killed right after Ecklie saw him with the palm print results was not a coincidence.

"Listen," he said quietly, leaning forward on his elbows. Brass raised an eyebrow and did the same. "I think I know who killed him."

"Not you?"

He glared, setting his jaw. "No. Not me."

Brass nodded. "Okay. Then who do you think did it?"

A sudden thought—or maybe it was just paranoia—entered his head and he stopped himself from answering. What if the under sheriff was watching this? He had the right to, since Greg was an employee at the lab, so nobody would think it strange. McKeen had it out for him anyway, after the Demetrius James incident, and that wasn't a well kept secret.

He thought quickly.

"Go in my locker."

"What?"

"Go into my locker."

"Sanders, just answer the ques—"

"Go into my locker."

Brass sighed and rubbed his forehead. "This isn't the time to be messing around, Sanders."

"Go into my locker."

The door opened and Nick stuck his head inside, a questioning look on his face. Brass motioned to him with his hand.

"Go for it," he said in a resigned voice.

Greg's eyes met Nick's for a second. The Texan smiled reassuringly to him before exiting and closing the door behind him.

"So," Brass said. "What is he going to find in your locker?"

McKeen could still be listening.

"A folder."

Brass' eyebrows furrowed. "On what?"

Greg didn't answer. Brass sighed again.

"You're digging a hole, Sanders."

"Not for long."

"How did Niles' blood get on your clothes?"

Greg paled and stared down at the table.

"I… When I found him…I kind of flipped, you know? I think I kind of…held him, or something…" His cheeks flushed and he refused to meet Brass' gaze.

"Then what?" Brass' voice was softer.

"I, uh, called somebody."

"Grissom."

"Really?" His brows furrowed.

"You don't know who you called?"

Greg shook his head. "No, I just panicked and dialled a number. What happened when I called him?"

Brass looked like he wasn't going to answer, but then he seemed to decide something within himself and said, "Grissom had the swing shift AV tech trace the call, then he called an ambulance, Ecklie, and me. Malcolm was pronounced dead at the scene, and the paramedics checked you over, but you were just in shock."

"Huh," Greg said absently. "Don't remember that."

Brass smiled wryly. "Like I said, you were pretty out of it. And, well, here we are."

Greg nodded. "Did you guys find a murder weapon?"

Again, Brass hesitated, but he said, "Yes. There was a gun under Malcolm's body."

"Prints?"

"Checking for them. No more questions, Sanders."

Greg gave him a small smile. "Sorry."

The door opened and Nick came in, his head bent over the open file folder. His face was ashen and Greg noticed his hands were shaking. _Damn_, he thought. He hadn't thought of Nick's reaction to finding all the notes on his best friend's murder.

Nick walked around to Brass' side of the table and took the extra seat, setting the papers on the table. Brass frowned and slid them over to his side to look at. Nick looked up at Greg with wide eyes, the shock and grief radiating from the brown orbs. Greg had to blink before he lost himself in the colour.

"What the hell is this, Greg?" he whispered in horror. "_Suicide?!_"

It was Greg's turn to be shocked. "What?!"

"Right here!" Nick grabbed the top papers. "Your report says that Warrick died by _suicide!_"

"Oh!" Greg was relieved. "No, look at the papers under that one. Ecklie had everybody close it as a suicide." He glared and bared his teeth at the files. "McKeen's orders."

Fury overrode Nick's shock. "_What?!_"

Greg nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly. "I didn't believe it, obviously, and neither did…Malcolm…" He stared down at the papers in Brass' hands. He was looking them all over briefly.

"What is all this, Sanders?" he asked, flipping a page. "What are you doing with Warrick Brown's file in your locker?"

Nick was staring at him intensely. He shifted in his seat.

"Me and Malcolm were investigating his death."

"Under whose orders?" Brass said.

"Uh…no one's."

"You do know that if you found something, it wouldn't be valid in court?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "I was planning on handing it over to you guys," he nodded towards Nick, "so maybe you could do something about it. Grissom could figure something out."

Nick's eyes had filled with tears as he licked his lips and blinked. He wasn't looking Greg in the eye anymore. Greg tried to suppress his own fear of Nick hating him by fixing his gaze on Brass.

"We didn't have a lot of time," he explained. "The car was taken away a few days ago, and the crime scene was already cleaned up, but we did find a palm print on the passenger door. The window was rolled down too, indicating that Warrick knew his killer, and either wanted to talk, or was talking to him."

Brass looked down at the paper which told the results for the palm print. His eyes widened before he snapped his head up to Greg.

"Are you positive about this, Sanders?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Swallowing, Greg nodded. "Yeah," he answered in a slightly scratchy voice. "I think…I think he's the one who killed Warrick. And Malcolm."

"But why Malcolm?"

"Ecklie saw him coming out of the print lab with the results. Since he was told by the under sheriff to close the case, he probably told McKeen that Malcolm was doing something regarding it, and…" He shrugged.

"Does he know that you're involved in this?" Brass asked quickly.

Greg shook his head, his throat closing up. "No, I don't…I don't think so."

Nick still wouldn't look at him. He gazed instead down at the many files in mute despair and shock, flipping a page every now and then. Greg tried his best to not let it bother him.

Brass sighed. "Okay." His eyes then widened and he turned to Nick and asked in a quiet voice, "Was McKeen in the viewing room with you?"

Nick, still not taking his eyes off the papers, shook his head.

Brass nodded, relieved, and glanced outside the glass walls. "All right. And he hasn't passed by here, either." He was silent for a moment, seeming to pull himself back together. "Why were you at the back of the building, anyway, Sanders?"

Taken aback by the sudden change of subject, Greg asked, "What?"

"What made you want to go back there?"

"Oh… Um, a feeling, I guess."

Brass sighed. "Nick," he said gently, "bring those papers with you. Sanders, stay in here. I'll have an officer watch you."

He didn't need watching, but he kept his mouth shut. As Nick passed Greg reached out and lightly touched his arm, making the other man stop. Greg was shocked by his own forward action, but his mind was still reeling from everything that had happened that day, so he blamed it on the imbalance. Nick stared at him with sullen eyes.

"I'm…" He swallowed. "I'm sorry, Nick."

Nick stared at him for a moment before walking again, without saying anything. Greg dropped his hand and let it dangle over the side of the chair, and his expression closed up. His eyes never left the spot where Nick stood.

He'd screwed up again.

* * *

The interrogation room door opened some ten minutes later. Greg turned his head to see who it was.

His blood turned to ice.

"Sanders," McKeen said with a grin that held so much promise. He dropped some clothes that Greg kept in his locker on the table. "Come take a walk with me, will you?"

Greg was rooted to his chair. _Oh, God_, he thought.

"I'm…I'm s'posed to stay here, though…" he said nervously.

"Nonsense!" The under sheriff waved his hand airily, and turned to the officer watching Greg. "We'll be fine, MacKinnon, don't worry about it. I just want to make sure Mr. Sanders here is holding up fine from his ordeal today." He turned back to Greg after the officer hesitantly nodded, as though unsure whether to tell the under sheriff he wasn't allowed to let Greg leave the room. "Come, Greg."

_You're going to kill me_.

He stood up shakily, using the armrests for balance, and followed McKeen out the door, after changing. Brass and Nick were nowhere in sight. And nobody else knew about McKeen's palm print.

"W-Where are we going?" he asked in a trembling voice as they walked down the halls. Several people turned to look at him with quizzical expressions, and he wanted nothing more than to scream for help, but his throat was closed up too much.

"Oh, I know a nice diner down the street. Figure you could use something in your stomach. You're looking a bit pale."

They passed Sara. Greg widened his eyes at her pleadingly, trying to silently pass along the message that _he's going to kill me_. She hesitated in her step and watched them pass, an uncertain expression on her face, but she just continued walking. Greg tried to calm his heart.

They were at the reception desk. Judy was on the phone with somebody. What would she do, he wondered, if she knew that she was letting him leave the building to go to his death? His murder?

They exited the building and the doors swung shut behind them, and Greg's hope died and his body went on autopilot as he followed McKeen to his car. He glanced up at the sky. It was dark. Night time. He could only see one star. The rest of the sky was covered by dark clouds, blocking out the rest of the universe from this perverse moment.

And as he heard the snap of the passenger door closing beside him, he knew he had never heard anything so final in his life.

-10-


	11. New Meaning

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Second last chapter! As always, chapter title comes from the song quoted below. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Happy reading :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter ten__:  
_New Meaning

* * *

'_I've been up at this all night long; I've been drowning in my sleep; I've prayed for your safe place, and it's time for us to leave; time is running on empty and the gas is running out; I've decided that tonight is the night that I set love aside; full speed ahead, this seems to be the place, I've seen this once before; planned perfection sought in my dreams, hoping this would take you home; around this turn where the cross will cast your shadow, the people will all gather to remember such a day where the flames grew as high as trees, and the world stopped for you and me; my knuckles have turned to white; there's no turning back tonight, so hold on tight; kiss me one last time, and shut your eyes; endless nights of dreaming of life and the days we should have spent here; glass shatters and comes to a halt; I thought we'd be there by now; I thought it would so much quicker than this; pain has never been so brilliant; I made sure you were buckled in.'_ – Underoath, "It's Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door"

* * *

"**H**ow about _Charlie's_, Sanders?" McKeen asked in a conversational tone as they pulled out of the crime lab parking lot. Greg felt sick. "I hear they've got good burgers."

"Sure," he responded weakly. Why was McKeen making such a big deal out of this? Why didn't he just bring Greg to the back of the building and shoot him there, like he did with Malcolm? Why _feed_ him first? He felt like a lamb before the slaughter, getting fattened up so that once he was killed, there would be enough of him to go around. He rested his head against the window and closed his eyes, allowing the bumps in the road to jolt his head against the cool glass, keeping his mind clear of unwelcome thoughts.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the restaurant. McKeen was first out of the car, with Greg following behind slowly, having to hold himself up by the car door in case his knees suddenly buckled underneath him. The under sheriff only grinned at him and guided him towards the front entrance by placing on hand on Greg's shoulder, simultaneously keeping him from running away. As if he had the strength.

_Charlie's_ was a nice place, when one came there to eat a meal that wouldn't be their last. The team had eaten there once or twice, when Greg mentioned the food was good.

"They even have Veggie burgers, Sara," he'd said with a grin.

They were right outside the door now. There was a large, neon red _Open_ sign on it, and Greg would have paid big bucks just for them to switch off the light and lock the doors. McKeen let go of his shoulder as they entered the restaurant, but Greg still couldn't find it in himself to wheel around and flee. It was as though the under sheriff had tied a rope around his wrist and was keeping him in a five meter circle.

"Let's go near the back," McKeen said, and Greg followed obediently. The place was packed with people. He hoped that someone would realize what was happening and call the cops.

Greg was seated against the wall, facing the glass walls at the front of the restaurant, while McKeen sat in front of him. A waitress—the same one that had served the team once, a while ago—suddenly appeared in front of them with a notepad, pen, and a wide smile.

"Hello," she greeted cheerfully, staring at the under sheriff. He nodded in return, while Greg didn't move or say anything. "Can I get you something to start? Some coffee or tea, perhaps?"

"Coffee, please," McKeen said politely, then glanced at Greg.

"Hey, you work for the crime lab, don't you?" the waitress said, recognizing Greg. He tried to grin at her and nodded. "Sanders, isn't it?"

"You remember my name?" he asked in shock.

She shrugged with her left shoulder and winked. "I always remember the cute ones."

"I'll just have some coffee," he said, avoiding her gaze. She smiled again and left to grab the coffee pot. Neither Greg nor McKeen spoke during the time she was absent. She returned a minute later and filled their cups, also dropping menus in front of them.

"I'll come back in a few," she said cheerfully, and then went to tend to another table.

Greg didn't open his menu.

"So," McKeen said conversationally, "what will you be having, Greg?"

He didn't answer; just stared at the table in front of him. It was shiny and beige. At least they had managed to grab a clean table. Immediately after thinking it, Greg scolded himself for his trivial thoughts. He was going to die tonight; he should at least be putting his mind to good use, like figuring out how he _wouldn't_ end up dead in some alley or dumpster.

"The sirloin steak sounds nice," McKeen continued. He flipped his menu closed and stared at Greg. "What about you?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. When was the last time you had something, eh? This morning?"

"Sure."

"Today's been a rough day, I'm sure. Eat something."

At least he couldn't be poisoned; McKeen wouldn't go as far as paying the chef to slip something into his food, surely. And their coffee had come from the same pot, so unless the under sheriff was planning on killing himself as well, Greg was safe at the moment.

"No, I'm fine. I'm feeling a bit sick right now."

McKeen hummed and took a sip of his coffee. Greg decided to try to get out of there.

"I'll be right back. Washroom." He began to stand up.

"Sit down, Sanders," McKeen ordered in a cold, firm voice, not looking up from his menu. He was gazing at the front cover, which showed a layout of random plates of food, from rice and chicken to soup and other meats. Greg sat down shakily.

"Why are we here?" he asked in a weak, quiet voice. He almost sounded pleading. At any other time he would have hated himself for sounding so pathetic, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"To eat. Why else?"

"Cut the crap, McKeen!" He glanced around at all the other people eating their suppers. Families, teenagers, couples… They were all here to enjoy a fine meal, while Greg was here because the man who was planning on killing him had a sick sense of fun and an appetite. "Why did you bring me here?"

The under sheriff stared at him hard. "Don't talk, Sanders. Just sit there and look like you're having a fun time."

"Why?" he asked in a frustrated voice. "Why don't you just drag me out behind the building and fucking _shoot_ me already?!"

"Sanders. _Shut. Up._"

A man to their left was staring at them curiously, a slightly guarded expression in his eyes. His coffee mug was frozen halfway to his mouth. Greg glanced at him, not aware of what expression was on his own face, and the man slowly took a sip and glanced back down at his newspaper.

Trembling slightly, Greg leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to breathe calmly. Sara had to have figured out that something was wrong. Greg wasn't allowed to leave the interrogation room until Brass told him so, and they hadn't finished talking with him. She had to have told someone that he was missing with the under sheriff.

The waitress appeared again. Greg opened his eyes and stared at her with glazed eyes. Was she the last person that was going to talk to him? Smile at him? Would she recognize his face and name in the paper the next morning, when the article screamed that another CSI had been killed?

"Have you decided what you want to order?" she asked in a cheerful voice. If only she knew who she was serving, Greg thought.

"Actually," McKeen said apologetically, glancing down at his watch. "We've got to run. Unexpected business, I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, sure," she answered. McKeen paid for their coffees and left her a large tip which left her smiling widely. "Bye," she called after them, and Greg somehow managed a small wave.

He would make a run for it as soon as they exited the restaurant. He decided it as they made their way between the tables filled with cheerful people who didn't know that they were letting a murderer and a soon-to-be victim exit the building. They weren't going to save him, so he might as well try to save himself. It would be best to run when they were on the street, since there were so many people walking about and McKeen wouldn't be able to shoot him without being caught.

It didn't stop him, of course, from pushing the gun into his lower back and standing close behind him.

"Turn right," the under sheriff hissed into his ear. "Keep going until I tell you to stop."

"They'll see you," Greg breathed as he made his way down the street.

"Not if you don't look suspicious," McKeen said. "Turn right here."

He did so. "Why did we leave the diner?"

"We're meeting somebody."

They walked for what seemed like forever, but was only around ten minutes. Greg blinked and tried to will down the panic forming in his mind. They were in a back alley, somewhere in a crappy neighbourhood, with shadows in every corner and no place to run. The alley was a dead end. Tears welled in his eyes as the under sheriff stopped walking, and Greg took several more steps before turning around and facing McKeen.

"So, what?" he asked in a hoarse, angry voice. The fury surprised him, but at least he wasn't going down begging for his life. "You're just going to kill me? Shoot me, like you shot Warrick and Malcolm?"

The under sheriff chuckled. An SUV pulled up at the open end of the alley, blocking off Greg's means of escape. For a split second hope rushed to his senses and he thought, _It's Brass_, but he didn't recognize the man sitting in the front seat and he was smirking as he lowered the passenger side window. He was obviously McKeen's ticket out of this place. Murder was messy, and there would be the possibility of somebody seeing him and Greg enter the alley, but only McKeen exit it.

_Oh, my God_, he thought in fractured awe. He was really going to die here. He was going to be murdered because he wanted his friends' deaths to be justified.

"You just couldn't leave it be, could you, Sanders?" McKeen said, shaking his head. "You had to go stick your nose where it didn't belong, try to bring me down for Brown's murder."

"He didn't deserve to die!" he yelled. "He didn't do anything!"

"He would have found out about me," McKeen said simply. His gun was down at his side, pointed at the cracked concrete he stood upon. "It was only a matter of time."

"So you tried to make it seem like he killed himself?! You're a fucking idiot, McKeen, if you thought everyone would just lie down and take it!"

"Only you and Niles were stupid enough to challenge me," he hissed. "It took you a while, but you figured it out, didn't you?"

"Yeah, we did," Greg said smugly, even though his heart was beating so rapidly that his chest hurt and he was sure his ribs were bruised. "We know it was you, and now so does the lab. You're fucked, McKeen. You can't kill everybody in law enforcement to save your ass."

"No, you're right, I can't." The casual way that he said it caused chills to creep down Greg's spine. "But I killed Niles. And I'm going to kill you. You screwed around where you shouldn't have, Sanders. This is your fault."

"Why did you only kill Malcolm, though? Why not me too? You could have gotten rid of us both, and instead you only killed him."

"I didn't know you were in on it," McKeen said bitterly. "When Conrad mentioned that Niles was processing prints from Brown's case, he never mentioned you. But I heard you, in the interrogating room, with Brass and Stokes. Stokes didn't even see me slip in to the viewing room when he left. If I had known you were in on it earlier, believe me, you would have died with Niles, and no one else would know it was me that killed Brown."

"But you didn't," Greg said quietly. "And now you're fucked."

"Do you really think that I'm not prepared for what's coming? I'm the under sheriff, Sanders, not some lowly homeless person. I've got connections—I've got escape routes so complex you couldn't even dream of following me through them. You, on the other hand…" He raised his gun and pointed it at Greg's head. "You've got nothing. How about it, Sanders? Your case files saying that you committed suicide in a back alley?"

"They'll know it was you."

"Like I said." He grinned victoriously and cocked the gun. "I've got a way out. You don't."

Greg closed his eyes and inhaled. This was his last breath. The air tasted stale and thick with the grime and dirt gathered on the walls surrounding him and the smoke in the sky. His lungs expanded, praying that this wouldn't be the last time they functioned; his heart gave a painful thump, as though reminding the rest of his body not to collapse and waste away. He still had blood pumping through his veins and arteries, still had thoughts collecting and jumbling in his head, still had oxygen and carbon dioxide surfing through his muscles, still had life inside him.

He slowly opened his eyes, his vision blurry from tears he would never let fall.

_This can't be it_, he thought. A gunshot filled the air and the moon glared down at him, the stars burst into flames.

_This can't be the end_.

* * *

"What've you got for me, Greg-o?"

Looking up, Greg tried to hide his nervousness by grinning and not keeping eye contact for too long. He straightened up and waved towards the microscope he had leaned down to inspect. Nick walked forward and peered through the lenses.

"Your girl had Idiopathic Edema."

"Which is?" Nick glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"A rare disorder that causes swelling to the face, hands and feet."

Nick nodded to himself and stood straight. "Explains why her hand was swollen. What about that hair I gave you?"

Greg swung around the table and picked up a sheet of paper. Glancing it over, he handed it to Nick.

"Male, came back unknown," he explained. He noticed that Nick was wearing a tight shirt, and swallowed, averting his gaze and instead staring through the glass walls, watching people hurry down the hall. "His hair was dyed, too."

"Oh, yeah?" Nick frowned.

Greg nodded and flicked his eyes over to the other man for a second. "Yup. Blondie isn't really a blondie."

Nick smiled at him and Greg's heart somersaulted. "Thanks, man."

Greg nodded jerkily. "No problem."

Just as Nick was about to step back into the hall, he turned around and leaned against the doorway. Greg tried not to squirm under his gaze.

"Hey, me and Warrick are going out for breakfast after shift. You wanna come?"

Greg stepped backwards and leaned against the side of the table, so as to not suddenly fall to the floor because of melted bones.

"Uh…" He cleared his throat when his voice came out slightly higher than usual. "Yeah, sure, if it's all right with Warrick."

Nick shrugged and smirked. "He's paying."

"Great," Greg said with a smile. Nick waved and went on his way, and Greg breathed out through his mouth in an attempt to calm his frantically beating heart. His nerves were standing straight on end. He was both relieved and disappointed that Warrick would be coming along.

He glanced up, and upon seeing Hodges watching him through narrowed eyes as though he were in deep thought, Greg raised an eyebrow at him and picked up another bag of evidence to process.

* * *

"Hey Greg, wait up!"

_Shit_. It was Nick. Inhaling sharply and stopping, Greg turned around and saw Nick jogging down the hall. Once he caught up to Greg, he smiled in welcome. Greg tried to find his voice.

"You're back at work?" His voice was weak, but at least it was there.

Nick nodded. "Yeah, I was going crazy at home so I called Griss."

Greg painfully stretched his lips into something that represented a grin. "Good to have you back."

"Thanks," Nick said lightly. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you… Are you okay?"

Greg frowned. "I think this is supposed to be happening the other way around, isn't it?"

"I'm fine," Nick said absently. "It's just, when you visited me the other night, you were kind of…" He shrugged. Greg's stomach turned to stone and he fought the urge to gag. "Acting weird, I guess…"

"Oh, um, yeah, I'm okay," Greg said, beginning to panic. "Listen, I got to go. It's great having you back."

"Wait, Greg—"

But he didn't stop, just kept walking.

* * *

"Ever wonder how you're going to die?"

Nick coughed into his drink in surprise, and Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Way to go the depressing route, Sara," he said lightly. "Talk about a conversation opener."

Nick chuckled as well, the sound sending tingles down Greg's arms. He tried not to think about the fact that he was sitting beside Nick, and that as his body shook from laughing, Nick's shoulders sometimes touched his in fleeting seconds that kept Greg's nerves on edge. His grin suddenly became nervous.

"I was just wondering," Sara said, slightly on the defensive. "I mean, we all think about it at some time."

"Well," Greg said, staring down at his coffee as he stirred it slowly. "Every morning when I wake up, I pull out a notebook from my bedside drawer and write the date, so that in case I die you guys will know exactly what day it was, in case I go missing or something."

They were silent. He glanced up through his lashes, first at Sara, then at Nick. Sara had gone still and she seemed to be thrown off balance by his sudden confession, but her reaction was nothing compared to Nick's—his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, giving a fantastic imitation of a goldfish, and his eyes were so wide Greg was surprised they hadn't popped out of their sockets. The three of them were silent for a good minute before he decided to put them out of their misery.

"That was a joke," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Sara rolled her eyes and Nick relaxed, but he still had a wary glint in his eyes, as though he were certain that Greg did indeed write down the dates in a notebook and was just trying to cover up with the joke. "Well you don't have to laugh," he said, slightly frustrated. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."

Sara chuckled and took a bite of her pasta. "It was funny, Greg," she said, and he simply raised an eyebrow at her and muttered an 'Uh huh?' "Nick, calm down."

"I am calm."

"You look like you want to scratch your eyes out."

"Well, it was a bit of a…surprise, okay?"

"I said it was a joke!" Greg exclaimed.

"Yeah, but still…"

"Oh, come on," Greg said, beginning to feel irritated. "You don't think I'm that paranoid, do you? I mean, it's not like I'm going to die tomorrow. Or today, for that matter."

* * *

There was no pain. No searing agony, no violating penetration in his forehead or neck or chest. No last thoughts, no _Oh shit I'm gonna die_, no trivial thoughts such as the decision to haunt the man who killed him. No tensing of his muscles, as though if he was compact enough, the bullet couldn't go through him. Not even a last minute _I never got to tell Nick how I feel_.

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He heard a scream. Maybe it was his own.

Shouting, then, and a horrid squealing noise, like tires on concrete.

_Get on your knees!_ he imagined he heard someone yell, but he wasn't sure.

"Greg!"

He knew that voice. Nick.

Nick saw him die.

He opened his eyes and he was still standing. He was still capable of breathing, though at the moment he wasn't, his throat was so closed up that he was surprised he wasn't on the ground convulsing, blue in the face. And Nick was running towards him, panic and worry ruling his actions, and stopping in front of him and grabbing his shoulders and saying something but his words weren't registering in Greg's brain and behind Nick he saw the under sheriff on the ground clutching his bleeding hand, the gun forgotten several feet away, and police officers flooding the scene and handcuffing him.

"What…" He wasn't even sure if he spoke the words, if he didn't just think them in his fractured thoughts.

"_Greg_." Nick shook him firmly. "Greg, stay with me, okay?"

Where was he going to go? Seriously. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Greg, are you listening to me? Can you hear me?"

He wanted to respond, he really did. _Yes, Nick, I can hear you, can you please keep talking? Your voice is keeping me calm_, but something was wrong with him, like a hand covering his mouth and another closing around his chest so he couldn't utter a sound. And suddenly his eyes began to lose focus and they tilted to the back of his head, and the only thing that kept him from blacking out was Nick shaking him again and repeating his name. Greg tried to gasp for a breath but none came—it was as though the air had vanished, replacing the void space with carbon dioxide, and it was slowly suffocating him.

"Nick…" Now, he really did say that, he was sure of it.

"Yes, Greg, you're okay. You're all right. Just stay with me, okay? An ambulance is coming, we're gonna get you checked out…"

Nick's voice trailed off, though his lips still moved. Greg couldn't hear him again. He couldn't hear much of anything, actually, except for the blood rushing in his head. Waves were crashing, and they were tilting him off balance in the tide. He was being swept away.

"Nick…I can't…"

His knees buckled. What was happening? Nick dropped down in front of him, his hands sliding down to Greg's forearms. He drew comfort from the connection; it made him feel even slightly grounded in this dizzying situation.

"It's okay, Greg," Nick whispered. Greg was glad he could hear his voice again. "I've got you. McKeen's been arrested. You're gonna be fine."

Tears welled in his eyes and he tried to curl into himself, but Nick's body in front of him prevented it from happening.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He stared straight into Nick's eyes, his own wide and scared; he needed Nick to understand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

"What are you sorry for, Greg?" Nick titled his head to be more eye level. "You did nothing wrong!"

"It's my fault," he gasped, the tears spilling from his eyes. He sobbed brokenly and titled forward. "Oh my God, it's my fault that he's dead…"

Nick suddenly wrapped his arms around Greg's back and pulled him forward, and Greg was enveloped by his warmth, his arms acting as a barrier from the outside world. Greg slipped onto his hip to be in a more comfortable position and he fisted Nick's shirt in his hands.

"Why do you think it's your fault, G?"

And oh God, Nick used his nickname, so of _course_ he was going to answer him, with Nick's body so close to his and Greg's face buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He couldn't remember ever feeling so _right_, like _this_ was where he belonged, and the world could collapse all around him, leave him nothing but chaos and destruction and plague, and as long as Nick was protecting him from it, it didn't matter.

"I asked him to help me," he said. "I didn't want to do it by myself because I'm not as experienced as you guys and I didn't want to mess up in case I missed something and Warrick would be stuck as a suicide victim and I couldn't let that happen, he was your best friend and my friend and he meant so much to everyone and if I fucked it up I could never forgive myself so I asked Malcolm to help me—"

"Whoa, Greg, slow down," Nick said softly. "It's not your fault, okay? You did nothing wrong, you did good, you wanted to bring Warrick justice." The pain in Nick's words bit Greg and left a bitter film over the wound.

"You were so broken," Greg said. His mind was floating somewhere in the abyss that encased his mind, and for once he felt like he could be completely honest with Nick. No barriers, nothing to stop him. "After his death. I hated seeing you like that, and Catherine loved him and Grissom felt so guilty and I just kept thinking that everything was wrong, and that I should have known him better. And when Ecklie said to close it as a suicide I just lost it, because it wasn't fair and not at all possible, and I kept thinking about how you would react to that. I knew I had to do something."

He took a deep breath. The cliff that had been following him for two years was wide open at his feet, ready to take him in. "I love you," he whispered.

"Yeah, I love you too, man," Nick said, his arms tightening for just a second.

Greg closed his eyes and a small sob escaped his throat.

"No," he said. "I mean, I'm in love with you."

Nick was silent for a shattering moment, where Greg didn't move and he thought, _I did it_, and it felt so amazing to finally let it out, let it go, that he didn't even care that Nick wasn't saying anything, he wasn't saying those four beautiful words, _I love you, too,_ in return.

"You're…you're what?" Nick breathed, but just then sirens filled the air and Greg knew the ambulance had arrived, so he extracted himself from Nick's arms, pushed himself onto his feet, refused to look at Nick's face, and he walked towards the flashing red and blue lights, not feeling much of anything at all.

-9-


	12. Through The Discord

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.

Rated for violence, slash, language, and _For Gedda_ spoilers.

Author's Note: Last chapter! (No epilogue, I'm afraid.) Chapter title from the song quoted below. Many, many thanks to everyone who reviewed this story and put it on their favourite/alert lists! Special thanks to happyharper13, DemonUntilDeath, and Ama.Dear for their lovely reviews that kept my ego cushy, and WitchGirl for her wonderful beta'ing and advice; without her, this story would be messy!

Now, you may hate me after this chapter… Or you may not. On to the last chapter of The Sky At Night! Happy reading :)

* * *

**THE SKY AT NIGHT**

_Chapter eleven:  
_Through The Discord

* * *

'_I swear I'll know your face in the crowd, and I'll hear your voice so loud, when you're whispering; here's my kiss to betray, desperate to brush the lips of grace; do you feel hollow when you think of how I've lied? Oh sweet angel of mercy, with your grace like the morning, wrap your loving arms around me; hey unfaithful, I will teach you to be stronger, to be stronger; hey ungraceful, I will teach you to forgive one another; hey unloving, I will love you…I will love you…I will love you… and Jesus, I'm ready to come home…'_ – Underoath, "Some Will Seek Forgiveness, Others Escape"

* * *

_He's just in shock_, the paramedic said. _No injuries_. So he'll be okay? asked Grissom, who Greg had only noticed when he walked up to the open ambulance doors and the paramedic immediately examined him. _Yes_, the paramedic said, _just have someone stay with him for the night just to make sure nothing happens_—so he doesn't do anything stupid, in other words—_and he should return to normal in a day or two. He's been through a traumatizing experience, and it's common to react like this_. Grissom sighed. That's good to hear, he muttered to himself, and relief washed all his anxiety away. What about McKeen? he swiftly changed the subject. _Bullet wound to the right hand, through and through, it'll just need some stitches. After that, he's all yours_. Thank you, Grissom then said, and he went off to talk to Brass, who Greg just noticed.

"Hey Greg, you still with me?" Sara's voice softly cut away some of the cobwebs mapped out inside his head. Greg nodded but didn't look at her. Instead he stared at Grissom and Brass, the captain's expression both sullen and relieved. Greg wondered if he was relieved that Greg was all right, or that the under sheriff had been caught, or both.

He heard Sara sigh. She wrapped her hand around his and he unconsciously allowed her to thread their fingers together. Greg was sitting in the backseat of a car, he didn't know whose, with his legs dangling out so he was facing Sara, who stood in front of him, slightly off to the side. After another moment she slowly sank to the cold pavement and leaned against the car's exterior, sideways to Greg.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispered, sincerity and bliss lacing her words in a comfortable tone that set Greg's mind at ease. "When you passed me in the hallway, the look in your eyes…" She shifted so her head was leaning on his knees, her hand squeezing his as though she were trying to convince herself that he was indeed sitting beside her, breathing. It helped him remember that, too. "I was confused, and at first I just shrugged it off, I mean, it was _McKeen_… But when Brass and Nick and Grissom kept asking people where you were, they became frantic, and I told them that I saw you both walking towards the front entrance…"

She chuckled darkly. "Twenty minutes passed between you walking by and them finding out, you know that? If I had only mentioned it sooner, we could have gotten to you before anything happened."

"But nothing did happen," he said quietly, his voice flat and his gaze now directed at the deserted spot where Grissom and Brass had stood moments before.

He heard her sniff softly. "He was about to shoot you, Greg; he almost did. You would've died if Nick didn't act on instinct and shoot at him… It's amazing that he hit his hand, really. He wasn't aiming at all."

So it was Nick that saved him.

"Nick shot him?"

"Yeah," she breathed, glancing up at him and smiling. He tried to reciprocate the action, but his lips didn't move. She settled her temple against the side of his knee once more and was silent for several moments, before she said, "He's acting a bit off, don't you think?"

Greg wearily lifted his gaze and peered out at Nick, who was standing next to Catherine off to the side of the alley—yellow tape bordered the scene, since they would be processing it to find out who had been sitting in the SUV—and talking quietly with her, his hands shoved in his pockets. His face was pale and he looked to be trembling slightly, but Greg couldn't be sure from the distance between them.

"He just shot someone in order to save someone he knew," he said softly. Not loved. Knew. "Of course he's acting a bit weird."

Sara shook her head slightly and sighed again. "No, it's not just that. It's like he keeps switching between glancing at you every five seconds and refusing to look at you."

He smiled wryly.

Her gaze flitted up to him again and she frowned. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"He knows."

She didn't utter a sound for a long time; instead stared at him with a wide eyes and her mouth in a small _o_ shape.

"You…told him?"

He nodded. Nick was now staring at his feet with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Wow," she breathed, a small grin gracing her lips. "Good for you, Greg."

"Maybe," he said quietly. "He'll probably never look at me again. Not want to work with me."

"Don't be stupid," she said immediately. "This is Nick we're talking about—Mr. Sensitivity. I'm sure he'll be fine with it."

Again, Greg smiled wryly. He dragged his gaze away from Nick and stared down at Sara.

"You know he doesn't feel the same about me. We both know it."

She snapped her head up to meet his gaze and she sighed again, shifting once more so she could comfortably look up at him.

"Some things just aren't meant to work out, Greg," she said quietly, a sad look in her eyes. "Sometimes…we just need to move on."

"Yeah," he said, staring at Nick again. Nick glanced up and made eye contact for a second before dropping his gaze to his feet again. Catherine's hand was on his arm for support. "Maybe."

* * *

Everyone began to peel out of the dark street. It was still dark out; before midnight, Greg guessed. Sara stood up and rubbed her pants to dust off the dirt that had stuck onto the fabric, and she gave his hand a final squeeze.

"I'll see you in a bit," she said with a small smile.

His eyes widened. "You aren't staying with me? I thought the paramedic said—"

"I would love to, Greg, really, I would…" And he believed her, begrudgingly. She glanced over her shoulder and her smile brightened. "But I think someone else would like to keep an eye on you."

He peered around her shoulder, and to his horror Nick was making his way over, his hands in his pockets once again. His face was blank; Greg had no idea what was running through his mind.

"No, Sara, don't—"

"Quiet, Sanders," she said lightly as she stepped away from him. She winked. "Enjoy."

_Yes, enjoy_. This was going to be wonderful fun, he was sure.

"Hey there," Nick said awkwardly when he was only feet away from where Greg sat in whoever's vehicle. Greg stared down at his feet and chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, not trusting his voice. "Um… You feeling any better?"

Greg cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm…I'm good. Thanks."

They entered an awkward silence that made Greg want to shoot up from his seat and slide away unnoticed, whereas Nick just seemed to be lost for words. Understandable, yes, but Greg still wished he wasn't in the position.

"So…you staying with me then?"

Greg's head shot up. "What?"

Nick eyed his oddly. "Are you staying with me, for the night? Like the paramedic said?"

Greg hadn't even been aware that Nick heard the paramedic.

"Um…I really don't have to… I mean, if it's too…"

"Well…you're in my car, so I just figured—"

"Goddamn it!" Greg swiftly stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, furious at himself for unconsciously searching for Nick, even if it was just his vehicle, and glared at the crumbling building on his left.

"What? That was your plan, right?" Nick asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Fuck my life," Greg muttered to himself. Instead of answering Nick's question, he said, "Where's Sara?"

"I…don't know…"

Greg began walking away from Nick, desperate to get some breathing room.

"Wait, Greg!" Nick jogged up and stopped in front of him, holding up his hands in a stopping gesture that Greg of course obeyed. "I think it would be good for us to stay together, even if it's just for a night… We need to talk."

While Nick didn't look upset, angry or disgusted when he said it, Greg had long ago convinced himself that the Texan would hate him if he ever found out. He imagined Nick closing the door behind them and wheeling around on Greg, yelling at him, maybe getting physical. He had voiced his concern to Sara once, before she left for San Francisco, to which she replied, _He won't, but even if he does, he'll have to answer to me_. It gave him some comfort that Sara was here again.

"We…" He trailed off, the panic beginning to set in again. Nick was standing just two feet away from him, his hands only inches away from Greg's shoulders. And they were staring each other in the eyes; Greg nearly lost himself in the darkness that swallowed Nick's pupils in the night light.

Nick dropped his hands and his expression suddenly turned sad and insecure. "I… We really do, Greg, because… Well, what you said wasn't exactly…"

_True_, he wanted to scream. _It wasn't true! I was lying!_

"Wasn't exactly what?" he asked instead, quietly. He was simply asking for disappointment, he knew, but he still wanted to know.

Nick sighed and ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. He broke their eye contact and glanced over to his left. Greg followed his gaze and was shocked to see that they were the only ones left in the street. Everyone else had left, heading to the lab, home, or the station. His heart rate increased.

"It wasn't all that expected," Nick replied in a strange voice. He gazed at Greg again, but this time Greg couldn't look him in the eye. "I mean…" Nick inhaled deeply, as though trying to prepare himself to say his next words. When Greg heard them, he didn't blame his friend for doing so. "You…love me?"

He began to tremble, his whole body. He bit his bottom lip and shut his eyes tight, tears beginning to well in them. He couldn't break down here, not in front of Nick; that would scare him off even more.

"Greg?"

Nick sounded concerned, and it sent Greg into confusion. He wasn't supposed to care how Greg felt, not after hearing that his friend of so many years, the one that had avoided him for so long, was in love with him. He was supposed to feel uncomfortable and unsure, if not angry and disbelieving. Greg took a shaky step back, his shoulders hunching as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He continued to stare at the ground, unable to meet Nick's eyes, as a tear slipped down his cheek.

"Greg?" His voice softening, Nick took a step forward. It made Greg feel cornered, trapped, even though he was standing in the middle of the street. He reached out to place on hand on Greg's shoulder.

"Don't," Greg said desperately, finally looking up again. Nick dropped his arm. "Just…don't."

He took a shaky breath. Two more tears escaped the cage he was trying to keep them in, splashing on the front of his shirt. He knew he looked horrible, he always did when he cried, with his pale face and bloodshot eyes. It only made him shake even more.

"Greg, please," Nick said quietly. "Just let me stay with you for the night, so we can talk this over."

Making a sound that was a mixture of a laugh and sob, Greg ran both his hands through his hair, turning away from Nick. He felt too exposed. He took another couple of steps backward, only to have Nick step in front of him with a determined glint in his eyes.

Dropping his hands back to his sides, Greg whispered, "Nick, please—"

"I'm not angry at you," Nick said. "Or disgusted, or anything like that. I promise." How did he know that that was what Greg was thinking? "I'm just…surprised, that's all. So let's talk about this, okay?"

The feelings overwhelmed him so much he couldn't differentiate them anymore. So, tired of trying to run, he just closed his eyes and nodded his head, allowing Nick to place a hand on his shoulder and lead him back to the Tahoe.

* * *

"Mine or yours?" Nick asked as they pulled out of the back alley.

"Mine, you have your car."

"I could always just drive you back."

"Doesn't matter. You choose."

"All right. Your place."

They drove in silence from then on. Greg watched the darkened houses flash by, most of their inhabitants long gone to sleep, and he wondered if he would ever sleep again. He didn't want nightmares filled with gun barrels and creeping shadows and the impending realization of death. He didn't want to wake up in a cold sweat without anyone there to comfort him and tell him to go back to sleep, _I've got you_.

He had almost been murdered. The thought kept resurfacing to the front of his mind, and he didn't appreciate the repetition, but it grew stronger every time. He had almost died. How close had McKeen been to pulling the trigger? What if the team hadn't found him when they did? What if Nick didn't shoot McKeen's hand?

He wondered what would happen to the under sheriff. He had contacts, sure, but he was found pointing a loaded gun at Greg. How much could he really do to save his ass? Greg felt sick at the thought of him getting away; he would die then, he was positive. McKeen would come back and kill him, no mistakes this time.

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window. It had started to rain. Just a little drizzle, but enough for Nick to turn on the windshield wipers and for Greg's mood to darken even more. He hoped the team had gathered all the evidence, because it would be washed away now.

They arrived at his apartment soon after the rain started. As he exited the Tahoe, Greg heard the distant rumble of thunder, before the droplets began falling faster and harder and the wind increased, tossing the water in every direction. He and Nick jogged into the apartment complex, the coldness of the rain shower shocking them into action.

Nick led the way to his apartment and it made his stomach quiver at the thought that Nick knew where he lived, even though he'd only come over a handful of times.

In the blink of an eye, they were situated in the living room, Nick sitting on the couch and Greg on the armchair opposite it, on the other side of the coffee table. He pulled his feet up onto the seat and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"So…" Nick licked his lips and glanced at Greg. "How do you want to do this?"

"I don't know what to say," he replied quietly, staring blankly at Nick's face.

"All right… For how long?" Nick crossed his arms over his chest and met Greg's eyes.

Flicking his gaze at the floor for a moment, Greg said, "Years."

"How many?"

"Can't remember." As if he was really telling him he had liked Nick since the first day they met.

"You…can't remember?" Nick's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Shrugging, Greg said, "Everything from the past few years is a blur."

Shock and fear sparked in Nick's eyes. Greg sent him a small smile.

"And…during that time, you had lots of…Easier days?"

He was surprised at the change of topic. Feeling slightly cold inside, Greg responded in a quiet voice, "A few, yeah."

"How'd you deal with them?"

He chewed his lip for a moment. "Sometimes I would go out for a drive, or… Anything to keep my mind busy, basically."

"Have you had any recently?"

"I can tell you that if I hadn't been brought in for Malcolm's murder, something might have happened."

Nick grimaced and Greg noticed his hands tighten around his arms. He looked away for a minute before making eye contact with Greg again. He opened his mouth, as though wanting to say something, but wasn't sure what words would exit his throat and closed it again.

"Why are you so interested in it?" Greg asked, simply curious.

Nick snorted. "What, you think I don't care that my friend is sometimes suicidal? Christ, Greg."

Friend.

"Sorry," he choked out. Nick didn't respond, only shrugged his shoulders, and they both broke eye contact at the same moment.

"That's what you said," Nick said absently, reliving a memory, a while later. Greg's head snapped up in attention. "When you came to visit me in the hospital, the night before you began distancing yourself. You said you were sorry, and I never found out why."

Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Greg squirmed in his chair. "Um…it was just for waking you up…"

"No it wasn't." Nick shook his head, still staring at the wall to his left. "You mentioned a nightmare. What was it about?"

"Why do you remember?" Greg snapped. He didn't want to hand all of his insecurities over to Nick and let him hold them. "It doesn't matter."

"It obviously does if it's the reason you panicked that night," Nick said icily back, now staring straight into Greg's eyes, "which then made you back off."

And Greg was so _tired_ of hiding everything behind a rapidly crumbling wall, stashing his emotions inside a hole and hoping tumbling bricks would lock them inside the airtight space. He was tired of giving half-truths and willing Nick and everyone else to just leave him alone. Because he didn't _want_ to be left alone, not anymore. He wanted someone to hold his hand and guide him through life, instead of stumbling blindly through it himself.

"It was about when you were buried," he whispered, staring to his left at the kitchen counter. The steak knives were there, but they were now nothing more than utensils to cut up meat. "But we didn't find you, this time, and…and I had to watch you, on the screen… I kept apologizing for not finding you in time, screaming…but you couldn't hear me. And I guess, that when I woke up, I just had to make sure that you were…_alive_, you know?" He turned his head to stare into Nick's shaded eyes. "And you were, of course, you were alive. But you made me so nervous and unsure of myself that I knew I had to stay away, in case you ever found out…"

"But why would that matt—"

"No, let me finish," he said quickly. "Please, Nick, I…I have to say this."

Nick's expression softened and he nodded. "All right," he said quietly.

Inhaling deeply, Greg continued, "We were friends, good friends, but I was always going to come second to Warrick since he was your best friend, and I was okay with that, really, I was, I understood it. You knew Warrick longer and you were always close, so I was just kind of there, and I was cool with that. I was used to being noticed, yes, but when you focused your full attention on me, like _I_ was your best friend… It made me feel insecure and doubtful.

"When Nigel Crane pushed you out of that window…" He shook his head. "All I could think about was my uncle Niel, who broke his back and became a paraplegic after falling off his roof. Not that there's anything wrong with you being paralyzed, I'm just saying that, you know, it would've sucked… I was going to offer you my place to stay at, if you wanted to stay clear of yours for a while, but I guess it just never happened, mainly because…well, I just wanted to give you space.

"And then the lab explosion, and… Well, you never visited, so…" He bit his lip for a moment; Nick grimaced and opened his mouth to say something, but Greg shook his head. "I didn't take it personally, I just… Okay, maybe I did, for a while, but I wasn't really in danger of dying, right? Plus we weren't all that close—"

"I've always considered you a close friend, G," Nick said sincerely, an almost desperate expression on his face. "Nothing's ever gonna change that."

He was speechless for a while, his mouth parted and his eyes wide, until the urge to grin was too unbearable and he rested his forehead on his knees to try to hide his giddiness. Nick caught his smile, of course, because he always saw everything.

Chuckling, Nick said, "I can't believe you've been doing…whatever it is you were doing, for the past two years."

Still sporting a lop-sided grin, Greg raised his head. "What?"

"Well, I mean, right now, you're laughing. Like you never became depressed. I missed it."

_And do you know why I'm laughing, Nick?_ he wanted to ask. _It's because you're in the same room as me, and you know how I feel and you don't hate me for it. I feel at ease again_.

"Yeah," he said, leaning his head against the back of the armchair. "I missed it, too."

"But Greg," Nick said, his tone becoming serious once again. Greg sobered up. "This…can't be the reason why you avoided everyone…right?"

Greg broke eye contact again. "You don't understand, Nick," he explained softly. "This isn't just some crush or infatuation…" He blushed immediately. "Okay, I'm not going to go into detail here, because that could be very, very awkward for both of us."

Nick shifted his position. "I'm just trying to understand why you thought you had to push everyone away, Greg."

"My plan was to stop…loving you," he said slowly. He glanced at Nick, whose expression changed for a second before going blank once again. "I figured, if I distanced myself from you, my feelings would disappear. I never planned on pushing everyone else away, it just sort of…happened. I mean, you already know that I fell into a kind of depression."

"Kind of?" Nick exclaimed in disbelief. "Please. We all noticed you were deteriorating. You just wouldn't let us help you." A sudden realization seemed to occur to him, and he leaned forward on his elbows. "Were you scared of anyone finding out that you're gay?"

Greg's blush reintroduced itself, spreading across his neck and over his cheeks. He fiddled with his jeans fabric.

"Greg, you know we wouldn't care!" Nick said with wide eyes. "Hell, I'm the one you're in love with, and I'm all right with it."

Greg's head snapped up. "You're…really okay with this?"

Nick nodded, then said, "Well, it is shocking, but…it doesn't change our friendship. Does it?"

Greg chuckled in relief, resting his forehead on his knees again. "I didn't even know we still had a friendship," he mumbled.

"Of course, man. Nothing's getting in the way of that."

A wave of calmness washed over Greg, bathing him in its serenity. He relaxed once again and smiled blissfully, his head leaning back against the chair and his eyes closing halfway. They were silent once again for several minutes, Greg revelling in the peaceful air surrounding them instead of the tense atmosphere he was so accustomed to, and Nick staring at his stretched out feet in concentration.

"But Christ, Greg," he said suddenly. "Are you insane?!"

Greg's eyes widened. "What?"

Nick's gaze didn't waver from Greg's face as his eyes narrowed, and Greg mentally prepared himself to protect himself, emotionally and physically.

"You avoided me, became _depressed_, for two years, because you didn't want me to know that you love me?" he exclaimed in disbelief, abruptly standing up and beginning to pace in front of the couch. Greg just watched him, barely breathing. "What the hell, man?! That's got to be one of the stupidest things you've ever done! Did you think I would flip out or something?"

"Well, you kind of are," Greg choked out.

Nick shook his head in frustration. "No, I mean… Did you think I would hate you? Beat the crap out of you?"

Greg's breath hitched. "I just… I didn't know how you would react, and I just thought it would be better to keep it on the down low—"

"Do I seriously come off as the type of person to feel disgusted at something like this?" Nick asked, his tone no longer angry and now just curious and hurt. He had stopped pacing.

"I…" Feeling as though he was dangling above open water, Greg grasped for anything at all to say. "No, I mean, it was just a natural reflex…"

"I would never hurt you, Greg," Nick said urgently, his eyes wide. "I mean intentionally. And…" He inhaled deeply, a grimace spreading across his face, as though he regretted what he was about to say. Greg had a good idea of what words were about to spill from his mouth. "And I can't…don't…feel the same about you, and I'm sorry about that, but… I still want to be friends, Greg, and I want you to know that I don't hate you, I'm not disgusted, I don't _care_, all right? We're friends, and we can deal with this together."

Greg exhaled and tears glistened in his eyes, but for once they weren't in sorrow or self-loathing. "Okay," he whispered with a small nod, another smile stretching his lips. "Thank you, Nick…so much."

"I'm sorry, Greg," Nick whispered empathetically, a sad look in his eyes. "That I can't give you what you want."

But Greg just smiled. "It's okay," he said quietly. "You already saved my life."

**The End**


End file.
